Chapter 6 - The Man in the Back Seat
Ethan didn't move. He stood on the wet asphalt, water dripping from the brim of his baseball cap, his bicycle balanced precariously against his hip.
"Look, mister," Ethan said, his voice defensive, exhaustion making him sharp. "If this is about the beef stew, I already paid for it out of my own pocket. My manager took thirty dollars from my pay, so you don't owe me anything. Just leave me alone."
A faint, warm smile touched the old man’s lips. He didn't look offended in the slightest.
"I know you paid for it, Ethan," the old man said softly. "That’s precisely why I’m here. My name is Arthur Vance."
The name meant nothing to Ethan. To Ethan, the world was divided into two classes of people: those who paid their rent on time, and those who didn't. Billionaires and corporate titans were creatures that existed on television screens, not in greasy back alleys behind the Harbor Diner.
"Mr. Vance," Ethan said, exhaling a puff of white condensation into the cold air. "I'm really tired. It's past midnight, I have a flat tire on my budget, and my landlord is threatening to throw my stuff on the street on Saturday. I don't have time for a rich guy's charity."
Arthur Vance studied the eighteen-year-old boy for a long moment. He saw the defiant tilt of his chin, the stubborn pride in his dark eyes, and the shivering frame trying desperately to hide beneath a thin denim jacket.
It was Thomas Callahan all over again.
"Charity?" Arthur repeated, his voice carrying a quiet, devastating weight. "Ethan, your father didn't take charity when he worked for me twenty-five years ago. And neither will you."
Ethan’s hands tightened on his bicycle handlebars. The word father hit him like a physical blow.
"My dad died when I was six years old in a car crash," Ethan said, his voice dropping an octave, turning dangerous. "You didn't know my father."
"Your father wasn't killed in a car crash, son," Arthur said gently. "Thomas Callahan died trying to expose the men who embezzled thirty million dollars from the maritime trust fund in nineteen-ninety-eight. Men who framed him for a crime he never committed, stripped his family of everything they owned, and left a widow and a six-year-old boy to starve in a basement."
The alley around them seemed to go dead silent. The hum of the distant traffic faded into a roaring rush in Ethan’s ears.
"What... what are you talking about?" Ethan whispered, the bicycle slipping from his grip and clattering against the wet asphalt.
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Arthur Vance reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy, cream-colored leather folder embossed with a golden maritime anchor, and extended it across the leather seat.
"Get in out of the rain, Ethan," the old man said, his pale blue eyes shining with an unyielding, fierce loyalty. "It’s time I told you what your father really did for this city—and what is rightfully yours."
