The Billionaire's Blood Debt

Marcus drove a matte-black SUV that smelled like expensive leather and ozone. He didn't speak as we pulled up to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy. He simply walked inside with me, handed the pharmacist a sleek black credit card, and carried the small paper bag containing Leo's antibiotics back to the car.

When we reached my apartment building—a crumbling brick walk-up in a neighborhood David Kesler wouldn't even drive through—Marcus insisted on walking me to the door.

"Mr. Roman’s orders," was all he said.

My babysitter, Mrs. Gable, was asleep on the couch. Leo was tossing and turning in my bed, his small face flushed with fever. I quickly mixed the pink liquid antibiotic and woke him up just enough to make him swallow it.

"Mommy?" he mumbled, his heavy eyes blinking up at me. "You're home early."

"I am, baby. Go to sleep. Your ear will feel better soon."

I kissed his forehead, my heart breaking at the heat radiating from his skin. I pulled his favorite dinosaur blanket up to his chin. As I tucked him in, the heavy silver coin Roman had given me slipped from my pocket and hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

I picked it up. The wolf’s head gleamed in the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the window. I turned it over. On the back, there were initials carved into the silver.

J.T.

My breath caught.

Jonathan Thomas.

My husband.

Jonathan had died three years ago in a hit-and-run. The police said he was walking home from a late shift at the warehouse, stepped off the curb in the rain, and a drunk driver took his life. They never found the car.

I stared at the coin. My thumb rubbed over the initials. It was Jonathan's handwriting. I knew those jagged, messy letters perfectly. He used to carve them into the wooden table at our first apartment.

Why did a billionaire who owned upscale restaurants and bled in back alleys have a custom silver coin with my dead husband's initials?

I didn't sleep that night. I sat in a hard wooden chair beside Leo’s bed, the coin clutched tight in my fist.

At 7:00 AM, there was a sharp knock on my door.

I jumped. I looked through the peephole. It wasn't Marcus. It was a man I didn't recognize, wearing a delivery uniform, holding a small cardboard box.

I opened the door on the chain. "Yes?"

"Delivery for Megan." He shoved the box through the crack in the door and walked away instantly. No signature required.

I locked the door and set the box on the kitchen counter. Inside was a sleek new smartphone. It was already turned on. As soon as I picked it up, it rang.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Pack a bag for you and the boy," Roman's voice came through, tight and urgent. "Marcus is downstairs."

"What? Why? Roman, I found a coin—"