THE PRICE OF FLESH AND BLOOD

Rain hammered against the cracked glass of the Starlight Diner like a fist demanding entry.

Elena pulled her hands back from the boy’s tiny fingers. The warmth of his skin lingered against her palms, a sharp contrast to the arctic chill radiating from the man looming over them.

"Take your hand off my son," Julian Vance repeated. His voice didn't rise; it didn't need to. It had the crushing weight of an iron door swinging shut. Behind him, Marcus, his lifelong enforcer, stood motionless near the entryway, rain dripping from his black trench coat onto the linoleum.

Elena stood up slowly, smoothing the creases of her white waitress apron. Her pulse thudded in her ears, but her chin remained lifted. "He was cold. He was asking for his grandmother."

Julian didn't look at her. His dark, calculating eyes fixed solely on the boy. "Get up, Leo."

Leo shrank back into the cracked red vinyl booth, his small fingers clutching the hem of his navy wool sweater. "Papa... the music box. Grandma is tired."

In the back corner, near the darkened neon signs, the vintage jukebox hummed. Behind its glass arch and wrapped in heavy industrial chains, the silhouette of an older woman shifted faintly. Her breath fogged the glass from the inside—a silent, suffocating cry for mercy.

"Your grandmother is paying a debt," Julian whispered smoothly, stepping closer until his leather gloves rested on the booth’s edge. "Just as we all must."

Elena stepped instinctively between Julian and the boy. "Whatever this sickness is, Julian, you don't bring it in here. Not around him."

Julian finally looked at Elena. There was no rage in his eyes—only the terrifying vacuum of complete ownership. "You always confused kindness with authority, Elena. That’s why you pour coffee for five dollars an hour, and I decide who breathes."