Chapter 4 - Sarah
"My boss doesn't notice if I'm breathing or not, let alone limping." I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the flutter of nerves as Franco's dark eyes study my face. "What did you do? And how did you even know where I work?"
The early morning chill seeps through my thin uniform, but I stand my ground.
Franco looks different in daylight. No less dangerous, but somehow more human in jeans and a leather jacket than he had in his night's expensive suit.
The stubble on his jaw is heavier, and there's a tiredness around his eyes that wasn't there before.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he glances at my ankle, which is still throbbing despite the generic pain relievers I took before my shift.
"You should be icing that," he says, neatly sidestepping my questions.
"You didn't answer me." I'm surprised by my own boldness. This man broke someone's wrist without hesitation yet here I am, demanding answers like I have any right to them.
His jaw tightens. "I asked around."
"Asked who? About what? Why would you even care where I—"
"You need to elevate that ankle," he interrupts. "Do you have ice at home?"
I blink at the abrupt change of subject. "Yes, but—"
"I'll drive you."
It's not a request. He's already moving toward a gray car parked across the street. Not the sleek Audi from last night, but still nicer than anything that usually stops at Rosie's.
"I can take the bus," I protest weakly, even as I limp after him.
My ankle really is killing me, and the thought of standing at the bus stop for twenty minutes makes me want to cry.
Franco stops and looks back at me, his expression unreadable. "The bus will take forty-five minutes. My car will take twelve. Your choice."
Put that way, it's hardly a choice at all. I follow him to the car, sliding into the passenger seat when he opens the door. The interior is immaculate, like the Audi was, but less opulent. Practical luxury rather than showmanship.
"Seatbelt," he says as he starts the engine.
I comply, sneaking glances at his profile as he pulls into traffic.
In daylight, I can see the thin scar along his cheekbone more clearly.
It looks like it came from a knife. There are other scars too.
Small white marks on his knuckles, a longer one disappearing beneath his collar.
The hands gripping the steering wheel are powerful, with prominent veins and thick fingers.
Hands that have hurt people. Hands that gently carried my son.
"Why are you doing this?" I finally ask as we stop at a red light.
Franco keeps his eyes on the road. "Doing what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely between us. "Showing up at my work. Getting me time off. Driving me home. You said you wouldn't see me again."
"I changed my mind."
"Why?"
The light turns green. Franco accelerates smoothly, his face giving nothing away. "Your ankle needs rest."
"There are thousands of people with injured ankles in this city. You're not driving all of them home."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "No. I'm not."
I wait for him to elaborate, but he remains silent. Frustration bubbles up in me. "That's it? That's all I get? You show up, completely upend my morning, and offer no explanation?"
"What do you want me to say?" he asks, his voice still maddeningly calm.
"The truth!" I burst out. "Why are you really here?"
Franco takes a left turn, bringing us onto my street. "I don't know."
The simple honesty of his answer stops me cold. Before I can respond, he's parking in front of my building, the same spot where the Audi sat. He kills the engine but doesn't move to get out.
"You should have three days to rest that ankle," he says, still not looking at me. "Your boss won't dock your pay."
"How? Why would Rosie listen to you?"
Franco finally turns to face me, his dark eyes meeting mine. "I have some influence."
"What does that mean? Are you... connected or something?" The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they're true. The expensive clothes, the casual violence, the "influence" with local businesses. He's with the mob. Or something close enough that the distinction doesn't matter.
He doesn't confirm or deny it, just holds my gaze steadily. I should be terrified. I should get out of this car right now and run as fast as my injured ankle will carry me. Instead, I find myself studying the lines of his face, wondering about the man behind the dangerous exterior.
"Thank you," I say finally. "For the time off. I really do need it."
He nods once, then exits the car. Before I can reach for my door handle, he's there, opening it for me. This strange courtesy from a man who radiates menace is jarring, but I'm starting to realize that Franco is full of contradictions.
He offers his arm for support as we approach the building. I take it, feeling the solid muscle beneath the leather jacket. We're halfway up the first flight of stairs when I remember.
"Tommy's at school," I say, stopping abruptly. "I was going to pick him up from my mom's on my way home from work, but now..." I check my watch. "He won't be out for hours."
Franco pauses, considering this information. "You should rest. I can pick him up later."
The offer is so unexpected that I laugh, then realize he's serious. "You want to pick up my five-year-old from kindergarten?"
"Why not?"
I stare at him, trying to picture this dangerous man standing among the mini-vans and SUVs at school pickup. "Because you're a stranger? Because the school won't release him to someone who's not on the approved list?"
He frowns slightly, like this hadn't occurred to him. "So add me to the list."
"I can't just add random people to my son's pickup list!"
"I'm not random," he says, sounding almost offended. "I'm—" He stops, seemingly at a loss for how to define what exactly he is to us.
I shake my head, feeling a hysterical laugh bubble up. "This is crazy. Last night you saved us from muggers, and now you want to be on my son's school pickup list? Who are you, Franco?"
He doesn't answer, just resumes climbing the stairs, his arm still supporting me. By the time we reach my door, I'm breathing heavily, as much from the confusion of this bizarre situation as from the exertion.
I fumble with my keys, aware of his presence beside me, solid and unwavering. When I finally get the door open, I turn to face him, unsure of what comes next.
"Thank you for the ride," I say. "And for... whatever you did to get me time off."
He nods, his eyes moving past me to scan my apartment. It's small and cluttered with the evidence of our rushed morning. Tommy's pajamas tossed over the back of the couch, breakfast dishes in the sink, and a pile of unfolded laundry on the coffee table. I resist the urge to apologize for the mess.
"You should elevate that foot. Ice it for twenty minutes, then take it off for twenty. Repeat," Franco says, his gaze returning to my face. "Do you have groceries? Pain relievers?"
"I'm fine," I say, the response I've given to every inquiry about my well-being for the past five years. "I can manage."
Franco's eyes narrow slightly, like he doesn't believe me but won't argue. "I'll check on you later."
"You don't need to do that."
"I know." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Your son. Where is his school?"
I hesitate. Giving this man—this stranger with dangerous connections and unexplained interest in us—information about Tommy's whereabouts feels like crossing a line. But he already knows where we live, where I work. I’m sure he could easily find the school. And he did save us…
"Sunshine Elementary," I say finally. "On Powell Street. He gets out at 3:15."
Franco nods, absorbing this information. "Rest your ankle."
Then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the stairs, leaving me standing in my doorway with more questions than answers.
I close the door and lock it, then limp to the couch, elevating my ankle on a cushion as Franco suggested.
The quiet of the apartment feels strange.
I'm never here during weekday mornings. Always rushing from one job to the next, dropping Tommy off, picking him up, a constant cycle of barely keeping our heads above water.
Three days off. With pay. It seems impossible, a gift I can't afford to question too closely. I should call my mother, let her know she doesn’t need to pick up Tommy today.
I reach for my phone and dial her number, rehearsing what I'll say. Certainly not the truth—that a mysterious, dangerous man arranged for me to have time off after saving us from muggers just less than 48 hours ago. Mom would have a heart attack.
"Sarah?" she answers on the third ring. "Is everything okay? Aren't you at work?"
"Hi, Mom. Everything's fine. I, uh, twisted my ankle two days ago, and my boss gave me a few days off to rest it."
"Rosie did that? The same Rosie who made you work with the flu last winter?"
I wince. "She's trying to be better about workplace conditions. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be picking up Tommy today. Is that okay?" I lie.
"Of course, sweetheart. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to bring you anything? Groceries? I can make some of that chicken soup you like."
The offer is tempting. Mom's soup is one of the few childhood comforts I still allow myself. But accepting would mean answering more questions about my injury, about why Rosie suddenly developed a conscience.
"I'm fine, really. Just need to stay off it for a bit."
We talk for a few more minutes before she has to go. She's watching her neighbor's baby this morning for extra cash, just like I did side jobs when Tommy was smaller. The hustle is hereditary in our family.
After we hang up, I lean back on the couch, the silence of the apartment settling around me like a strange blanket. When was the last time I was home alone on a weekday morning? Before Tommy was born, certainly.
I close my eyes, intending just to rest them for a moment. The next thing I know, I'm jerking awake to the sound of knocking. Disoriented, I check my phone—12:37 PM. I've been asleep for almost four hours.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I struggle to my feet, wincing as weight hits my injured ankle, and limp to the door. Through the peephole, I see Franco standing in the hallway, holding what looks like grocery bags.
I open the door, aware that I probably look a mess. Hair falling from my bun, sleep creases on my face, still in my pink diner uniform.
"You didn't ice your ankle," Franco says by way of greeting, his eyes dropping to my swollen joint.
"I fell asleep," I admit, stepping back to let him in. "What's all this?"
He walks past me into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. "Groceries. Ice packs. Proper pain relievers."
I follow him, watching in bewilderment as he unpacks the bags.
There's good bread from the bakery downtown, not the cheap stuff I usually buy.
Fresh vegetables. Actual brand-name peanut butter instead of the generic kind.
Chicken, pasta, fruit. Things I would buy if I had the money, if I didn't have to stretch every dollar.
"Franco," I say, my voice catching embarrassingly, "I can't accept all this."
He pauses, a box of premium ice packs in his hand. "Why not?"
"Because..." I struggle to articulate the complex tangle of pride and gratitude and confusion knotting in my chest. "It's too much. I don't understand why you're doing this."
Franco sets the ice packs down and turns to face me fully. "You need food. I bought food. It's simple."
But it's not simple. Nothing about this situation is simple.
"People don't just do things like this without wanting something in return," I say, hating how suspicious I sound but unable to help it. Life has taught me that lesson too well.
"I don't want anything from you."
"Then why?" I press, needing to understand. "Why the groceries? Why the time off? Why are you here right now instead of... whatever it is you normally do on weekday afternoons?"