On my birthday, my parents bought my brother a new car and gave me a lecture.

The meeting was set for the following night in a vacant, industrial warehouse near the Chicago River.

Marcus Kane had arranged everything. I stood in the center of the dusty, concrete space, flanked by two of Kane’s personal security details. The air was cold, smelling of rust and river water.

A sleek black sedan pulled into the warehouse, its headlights cutting through the gloom. Gregory Vance stepped out. He was a tall, imposing man with slicked-back hair and a cruel, arrogant sneer. Behind him stood the two thugs who had chased me in the subway.

"Well, well," Vance laughed, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. "The runaway boy. I must admit, I didn't think you had the balls to call a meeting. Where's my money, Andrew?"

"Your money is right here," I said, holding up a sleek leather briefcase containing two hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds—the exact amount of my father's debt, plus interest. "But it comes with conditions."

Vance chuckled, taking a step forward. "Conditions? Kid, you're in no position to bargain. I can take that briefcase, break your legs, and still go after your useless family."

"You could," Marcus Kane’s voice boomed from the shadows as he stepped into the light. "But then, Gregory, the federal indictment I filed with the U.S. Attorney’s office this afternoon would be unsealed. And I don't think you'd enjoy a twenty-year stretch in a federal penitentiary."

Vance froze, his sneer faltering as he saw Kane. "Marcus. What the hell is this? This is a private matter."

"It was a private matter until you started fixing games in my league," Kane said coldly. He gestured to me. "The kid has the receipts, Gregory. He has every transaction, every bribed referee, and every forged signature. You touch him, or anyone in his family, and those documents go public."

Vance’s eyes darted between Kane and me, his face turning a dark, furious red. He was a predator, but he was also a businessman. He knew when he had been outmatched.

"Two hundred thousand," Vance spat, holding out his hand. "And we are square. I don't touch the kid, and I don't touch his family."

"Sign this first," I said, pulling a legal document from my pocket—a binding release agreement drafted by Kane's lawyers, stating that all debts were settled and any future contact would result in immediate legal action.

Vance snatched the pen from my hand, scribbling his signature with a savage force. He grabbed the briefcase, glaring at me with a venomous intensity.