Chapter 2 - Sarah
My heart hammers against my ribs as I press Tommy closer to me, both of us huddled against the back of this stranger who appeared from nowhere. I shouldn't trust him.
This tall, dangerous-looking man with cold eyes and scarred knuckles. But right now, he's the only thing standing between us and those three teenagers with their knife and their hungry, desperate eyes.
I'd been so stupid. Taking the shortcut through the alley because my ankle was throbbing after a double shift at the diner.
Eight hours on my feet serving entitled businessmen who don't tip, followed by four hours stocking shelves at the corner mart.
All I'd wanted was to get Tommy home faster so he could sleep in his own bed instead of on my mother's couch for another night.
Now my five-year-old is trembling against me, his small fingers digging into my leg, while I cling to a stranger's jacket like it's a lifeline.
The man—I don't even know his name—stands perfectly still.
There's something terrifying about his stillness, like a predator who doesn't need to pace or posture because he knows exactly what he's capable of.
The teenagers sense it too. The smallest one is already edging backward, but the leader with the knife is too proud or too stupid to back down.
"I'm not asking again," the kid snarls, flicking the knife between his fingers with fake confidence. "Give me the purse or I'll cut you."
He's talking to me, but my protector answers.
"You have three seconds to leave." His voice is so quiet I can barely hear it, but something in the tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "One."
The middle teenager tugs at his friend's sleeve. "Come on, man, let's go."
"Two."
The leader's eyes dart between his friends and my protector, his grip on the knife tightening. "You think I'm scared of you?"
"Three."
What happens next is so fast I can barely follow it.
The teenager lunges with his knife, a wild, desperate swing.
My protector moves like water, sidestepping the blade while simultaneously grabbing the kid's wrist. There's a sickening crack, a scream, and the knife clatters to the ground.
The leader drops to his knees, cradling his broken wrist.
The other two teenagers freeze for a split second before the smallest one turns to run but doesn’t leave his spot. The middle one hesitates, looking between his fallen friend and my protector.
"Help me!" the leader wails, his face contorted with pain.
The remaining teenager makes a decision. He rushes forward, throwing a clumsy punch that my protector blocks with contemptuous ease. A single counter-strike to the teen's face sends him sprawling backward, blood spurting from his nose.
"Go," my protector says to all three of them, his voice still eerily calm. "If I see any of you near this woman or her son again, I'll do worse."
The two who can still walk drag their leader to his feet. He's sobbing now, clutching his twisted wrist. They stumble away, casting fearful glances over their shoulders until they disappear around the corner.
Only when they're gone does my protector turn to face me.
Up close, his features are sharp and severe: dark eyes under heavy brows, a strong jaw covered in stubble, and a thin scar that runs along his left cheekbone.
He's older than I initially thought, maybe forty, with streaks of gray in his short dark hair.
"Are you hurt?" he asks, his eyes flicking over Tommy and me.
I shake my head, suddenly aware that I'm still gripping the back of his expensive-looking jacket. I release it quickly, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric with trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry, I—thank you. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along."
Tommy peeks out from behind my legs, his brown eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. "Did you see how fast he moved, Mommy? Like a ninja!"
Despite everything, I feel a hysterical laugh bubble up in my chest. Leave it to a five-year-old to see the world's most terrifying man and think "cool ninja" instead of "dangerous stranger."
"Tommy," I murmur, pulling him closer to me. "We need to get home."
The man nods and steps back, giving us space. Something about the way he moves tells me he's used to people being afraid of him. "Where do you live?"
I hesitate. Telling a stranger where we live goes against everything I've ever taught Tommy about safety. But this man just saved us, and I can barely walk on my throbbing ankle. The thought of limping three blocks with Tommy in my arms makes me want to cry with exhaustion.
"Three blocks east," I finally say. "The apartment building with the green door."
He nods again, all business. "My car is nearby. I'll drive you."
"That's really not necessary—"
"It is." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Those kids might come back with friends."
The practical truth of this silences my objection. I shift my weight and wince as pain shoots up from my ankle.
His eyes narrow. "You're injured."
"It's nothing. I twisted it at work earlier." I take a step and nearly collapse as my ankle gives way. Tommy grabs my hand, his little face scrunched with worry.
"Mommy, does it hurt bad?"
"Just a little, baby. I'll be okay."
The man watches this exchange. Then, without warning, he kneels down to Tommy's level.
"What's your name?" he asks, his deep voice somehow gentler than before.
Tommy looks up at me, seeking permission to answer. I nod slightly.
"Tommy Mitchell. I'm five and a half." He holds up five fingers, then adds a little space between his thumb and forefinger to indicate the half, “My mom’s name is Sarah. Ends with an h.”
"Tommy," the man says seriously, "my name is Franco. Your mom hurt her foot. Is it okay if I help you both get home in my car?"
I'm stunned by this approach—asking my five-year-old's permission instead of just telling me what to do. Tommy considers the question with all the gravity a kindergartener can muster before nodding solemnly.
"Yes, because Mommy's really tired. She works two jobs," he informs Franco importantly. "And sometimes her feet get all puffy."
I feel heat rush to my face. Nothing like having your child announce your swollen ankles to a complete stranger. But Franco just nods as if this is valuable intelligence.
"I see." He stands and turns to me. "May I?" he asks, gesturing toward Tommy.
Understanding his intention, I nod, and he lifts Tommy effortlessly with one arm. My son, usually shy with strangers, settles against Franco's broad shoulder without protest, apparently having decided that ninja status trumps stranger danger.
Franco offers me his other arm for support. "Sarah, right?"
I blink in surprise. "Yes"
I take his offered arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his jacket.
Up close, I can smell his cologne, something subtle and probably worth more than my monthly rent.
What kind of man wears designer suits to walk through this neighborhood at night? The dangerous kind, obviously.
We move slowly down the alley and back onto the street. Franco's vigilance never wavers, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings as we walk. A sleek black Audi is parked half a block away, looking ridiculously out of place in this neighborhood.
"That's your car?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
Franco doesn't respond, just guides me toward it. He clicks a key fob, and the car unlocks with a soft beep. The interior lights illuminate plush leather seats and a dashboard full of technology I'd never understand. He opens the back door first and settles Tommy inside.
"No car seat," he notes, helping Tommy with the seatbelt.
"No problem. This is already more than enough.”
Franco nods, then helps me into the passenger seat. The leather feels buttery soft beneath my worn jeans, and the car smells like expensive cologne. When Franco slides into the driver's seat, the whole space seems to shrink around his presence.
Tommy leans forward between the seats, eyes wide. "This car is fancy! Is it a spy car?"
Franco's mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Not quite a smile, but close. "No. Just a car."
"It looks like a spy car," Tommy insists. "Does it have secret buttons? Can it fly?"
"Tommy," I say, embarrassed by his questions, "let Mr. Franco drive."
"Just Franco," he corrects, starting the engine. It purrs to life, barely audible compared to the rattling bus I usually take. "And no, it can't fly. Address?"
I give him directions to our apartment building, and he pulls smoothly into traffic.
His hands on the steering wheel are large and scarred, with prominent veins and thick fingers that handle the car with ease.
They're hands that have seen violence, that have dealt violence, yet they're now safely delivering my son and me home.
Tommy continues his interrogation from the back seat. "Are you a superhero? Is that why you saved us?"
"Tommy," I hiss, mortified.
Franco's eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. "No. Not a hero."
"But you beat up those bad guys like one!" Tommy argues. "And you have a cool car like Batman."
"Batman has cooler cars," Franco replies, surprising me with his knowledge of superheroes.
"Yeah, but yours is still nice," Tommy concedes generously. "Do you have kids?"
I turn in my seat. "Tommy! That's enough questions."
Franco doesn't seem bothered. "No."
"Why not?" Tommy asks, ignoring my warning.
"Tommy Mitchell," I say in my sternest mom voice, "that's enough."
To my surprise, Franco answers anyway. "Never found the right person."
Tommy absorbs this with the seriousness of a philosopher. "My dad didn't want me. He left before I was born."
The car suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I want to sink through the floor with embarrassment. But Franco just nods, his expression unchanged.
"His loss," he says simply.