Adventure of Francesco Fontaine 2 A Mafia Tale

The bell over the door gives a soft chime as Francesco and Lorenzo step out of the warehouse’s grime and into Ignazio’s quiet tailor shop. Wool, chalk, and steam from the pressing iron replace smoke and blood. Guiermo looks up from his bench and stills at once.

He sets down his shears, eyes fixed on the blood-soaked bandage at Francesco’s chest. Lorenzo slows near the counter, giving the room its space. The shop feels almost ceremonial, bolts of cloth standing like banners in the lamplight.

Francesco moves in the face of the older man’s urgency, the hard edge of the night easing by inches. Guiermo reaches for a clean cloth and a tin of supplies, his hands quick and practiced.

The cut stings under the bandage, and the room smells of soap and wool instead of cordite.

Francesco settles onto the stool, and the small circle of lamplight tightens around him. Guiermo steps in close, one hand bracing the cloth, the other already finding the knot of the bandage. Lorenzo stays back, quiet, giving the room a respectful hush.

The first layer lifts with a soft, wet pull. Guiermo pauses, studies the wound, then clicks his tongue once in disapproval before reaching for fresh gauze.

Warm water, soap, and the sharp clean smell of antiseptic replace the warehouse stink. Guiermo works with the steady care of a man who has stitched up more than hems in his time.

Lorenzo lets out a small laugh, and the sound loosens something in the shop. Guiermo presses fresh padding into place, then binds it firm across Francesco’s chest until the ache turns steady and contained.