Others owed me their lives.
I had survived betrayals, bullets, and men who smiled while planning my funeral.
But nothing had prepared me for a 5-year-old boy begging me to save his mother.
“What’s your name?”
“Leo.”
I stared at him.
He wasn’t asking for money.
He wasn’t trying to steal my watch.
He was asking for time.
I switched on my hazard lights.
Then I opened the door.
Leo’s eyes widened as I stepped onto the sidewalk in my black tailored suit.
“Take me to her.”
“Really?”
“I said take me to your mother.”
We ran.
Within seconds, Manhattan’s polished storefronts disappeared behind us.
Leo led me into a narrow alley between two aging buildings. Trash bags lined the pavement. Damp cardboard rested against stained brick walls.
Then he stopped.
“She’s there.”
A woman lay curled beneath an old blanket.
“Mom!”
Leo rushed toward her.
I dropped beside him and checked her pulse.
Weak.
Far too fast.
I pulled out my phone.
“Ambulance. Now.”
The dispatcher started asking questions.
Normally, one phone call from me could summon ten armed men in minutes.
But none of that mattered here.
Power couldn’t force this woman to breathe.
