Chapter 145
Same town. Same neon-buzzing gas station on the edge of the highway.
A ragged figure sits slumped on a flattened cardboard box beneath the cold glow of a flickering light. The night air bites; the wind carries grit.
The man's face is a map of old scars and dried blood. Once sharp, commanding eyes are now sunken, clouded. His lips form only broken grunts and hoarse noises. He cannot speak, not anymore. The world believes the Vale patriarch died four months ago. In truth, he's been here for seven—mute, homeless, and forgotten except by those paid not to forget.
Every Friday, at nine sharp, two gas station clerks step outside. They've grown used to the sight. He's just the scarred vagrant in rags with a dented tin cup in front of him.
Tonight is no different.
One of them clicks his tongue, glancing down. "Seriously, buddy… who the hell did you piss off?"
The old man grunts, a sound halfway between rage and a plea.
The other clerk smirks and pulls out a burner phone, checking the cracked screen. "Well, time for your call."
They don't wait for a reply; they know there won't be one. He can only make guttural noises, the words lost somewhere along with his dignity.
The younger clerk dials the single number saved on the phone and puts it down next to the homeless man before the two of them head back inside. They don't ask questions; they've learned not to.
All they know is this: once a month, money floods into their account—an obscene sum, enough to make looking the other way easy. Their only instructions?
Make sure the homeless guy out front gets just enough not to die. They can forget to feed him for a day or two, leave him in the cold, let him drink from rain puddles if he has to. But he must not die.
Every Friday night at 9 PM sharp, they call the number.
They ask no questions, and they get paid.
A sweet deal for the brothers.
For the man on the ground, it's hell.
The line clicks. A voice, smooth and amused, fills the silence.
"Hello, grandfather," Zander Vale's voice purrs.
The old man jerks, eyes wide. He grunts furiously, straining against his own ruined throat. Bastard.
"Seems like you're pleased to hear from me," Zander continues lightly, as if this were a family brunch call.
"Let's start with the briefing."
The homeless man trembles, the urge to scream overwhelming, but he remembers the last time he threw the phone. A week of starvation and exposure taught him to obey.
"I'm sure you've heard—I have a daughter now," Zander says. There's a pause and the faint sound of a baby cooing in the background.
"She's… well, interesting-looking. But she's adorable. Her name's Nia—Ivannia, technically. If it was a boy, it was going to be Zander. Ivan wasn't thrilled about the name, but I think it's perfect."
The patriarch growls weakly, wishing he could curse him.
"Oh, right. You probably care more about your children than mine. Let's get to that," Zander says conversationally, like he's reading the weather.
"Your third and fourth sons? Convicted. Sexual offenders don't have a good time in jail—don't worry, I made sure of it. Unlike you, who just got scarred, I had to get creative. Tracked down similar criminals, killed them, paid surgeons to reshape your sons into their faces. Bribes, forged records… exhausting work, really. But worth it."
The old man whimpers. His chest shakes.
"And of course I did the same for the rest of your children. While digging into your past, I found those charming secret clubs of yours. The extended Vale family is even filthier than I imagined. But they didn't piss me off like you did, so some got the quick way out."
The baby cries softly.
"Shh, my little girl," Zander murmurs away from the receiver before returning to his venom-laced sweetness.
"You'd be proud of the actors I hired to replace you all. The public hasn't noticed. The media fawns over them. They smile for photos in your home, living off your name, while the actual Vale blood rots in prisons across the globe."
The old man thrashes weakly, grunting louder now, the sound raw with rage and humiliation.
Zander laughs quietly.
"How does it feel, grandfather? To know the empire you pride yourself is being enjoyed by strangers while you freeze on a sidewalk, begging for pity change? Poetic, isn't it?"
The patriarch lets out a broken sound, an almost-scream. He wants to curse him, kill him, anything. But all that leaves his throat is a hollow rasp.
"Well, same time next week," Zander says cheerfully.
"Try not to die. I'd miss our talks."
The line goes dead.
The old man shakes, eyes wet. What did he do to deserve this? He ruled over thousands. He was an elite. He was untouchable.
Now a passerby tosses a crumpled bill into the tin cup. "Here you go, buddy."
How dare you pity me, he wants to scream. But all that escapes is a grunt. The man walks away.
One of the gas station clerks steps out again, picking up the burner phone.
"Done with your call? Good. Oh hey, ten bucks!"
He plucks the bill from the tin and pockets it before heading back inside.
The patriarch tugs his filthy coat closer. The cold night offers no mercy. Neither does his grandson.