— “You remember him? He owns that ‘private equity’ firm and the auto shop on the edge of town. People call him ‘The Shark.'”
Mike remembered. Victor Vance. A guy who always wore expensive suits but had the eyes of a predator. He’d heard rumors about Vance lending money to people in trouble, but he’d never thought his own parents would be the ones.
— “He gave you the money?” — Mike asked.
— “He did,” — his father nodded. — “Eighty thousand. Wired it that same day. He said, ‘Pay me back when you can, Frank. We’re neighbors.’ I signed a paper. He told me it was just a formality.”
Mike felt a familiar anger simmering in his chest.
— “And then?”
— “The surgery worked,” — his mother wiped her eyes. — “Thank God for that. We started trying to pay him back. I took extra shifts, your dad did some light consulting. But three months in, Vance showed up.” — His father gritted his teeth. — “He said time was up. I told him we were doing our best, but he told me to read the fine print. The interest… it was 20% a month. We didn’t see it, Mike. It was buried in the legalese.”
Twenty percent a month. Mike did the math. $80,000. In three months, that debt would have ballooned to nearly $140,000. Then $170,000.
— “How much does he want now?” — Mike asked, his voice low.
— “Two hundred and fifty thousand,” — his father whispered. — “In six months, it hit a quarter of a million. I tried to make payments, but he refused them. He said ‘all or nothing.’ Or the house.”
— “A week ago, some men came by,” — his mother sobbed. — “With papers. They said there was a ‘private foreclosure.’ We didn’t even know there was a court date. We never got a notice. And this morning, the movers showed up.” — His father lowered his head. — “With the Sheriff’s deputy. They said it was all legal. They gave us two hours to pack. This is all we could take.”
Mike looked at the suitcases. Two old bags. His parents’ entire lives reduced to what they could carry.
— “Where’s Vance?” — Mike asked. His voice was cold, professional.
— “I don’t know,” — his father shook his head. — “But his guy, Vince, is inside. He says he’s the new owner, that Vance sold the property to him. On paper, it looks like a clean sale.”
Mike stood up slowly. He looked at the house. The lights. The SUV. Inside, something hot and dark was boiling over. In the Army, he’d learned discipline. He’d learned to think before acting. But right now, logic was losing the fight.
— “Mike, don’t!” — his father tried to grab his arm. — “They’ve got the law on their side. Sheriff Miller is in Vance’s pocket. You’ll just end up in jail.”
— “Dad,” — Mike gently pulled his arm away. — “I’m just going to have a conversation.”
— “Mike, please!” — his mother begged. — “It’s not worth it. We can stay with Mrs. Gable for a few days.”
Mike leaned down and kissed her forehead.
— “Mom, I’m just going to talk to them. I promise.”
He walked toward the house. His feet moved on autopilot. All he could see was his parents sitting on the curb while some thug made himself at home. He walked up the porch steps—the same ones he’d helped his dad sand and stain three summers ago.
The front door was propped open. Warm air drifted out, smelling of expensive cigars and cologne. Not his dad’s pipe tobacco. Mike pushed the door open.
In the living room, sitting on their old sofa, was a man in his late thirties. Leather jacket, gold watch. He looked smug. Two younger guys stood nearby—short hair, gym-rat builds, wearing matching tactical-style jackets. Security. One of them was holding his father’s hand-carved humidor, flipping it over like it was a piece of junk.
— “Put that down,” — Mike said.
All three men turned. The man on the sofa smirked.
— “Well, look at this,” — he drawled. — “Who are you, kid?”
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