Page 3 of Franco
"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?"
