Then his personal phone rang. Blake’s number.“Hey, champ. You okay?” The question was automatic, but something in his son’s voice triggered the instinct that had kept Lucius alive in Helmand Province.
“Dad? Yeah, I’m fine. Just… can we talk? Not on the phone.”The Meeting at Uncle Byron’s

Blake was sixteen, a sophomore who’d inherited his father’s build and his mother’s dark, expressive eyes. He’d been distant lately, a change Lucius had attributed to teenage rebellion, first girlfriends, the usual chaos of adolescence. But the tremor in his son’s voice said otherwise.“I can pick you up in twenty. Usual spot.”“No,” Blake’s voice dropped. “Can you meet me at Uncle Byron’s garage instead? I… I don’t want to be home right now.”

Uncle Byron. Byron David, Lucius’s younger brother, was the only mechanic in the city who could resurrect a ’67 Mustang from a pile of rust and regret. Blake had spent countless afternoons there since the divorce, learning to rebuild carburetors and change timing belts in the sanctuary Byron had created for classic cars and lost causes.

“I’m on my way.” Lucius grabbed his jacket, told his second-in-command he’d be out for an hour, and drove through the industrial area that gentrification had somehow missed. When he pulled up to the garage, he found his son sitting on the hood of a Chevelle, shoulders hunched, staring at his phone.

That’s when he saw the bruises.The Evidence of Abuse“Blake.” His son looked up, and Lucius saw the purple shadow blooming under his left eye, half-hidden by carefully arranged hair.
“Don’t freak out.” Blake slid off the hood, hands raised defensively. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”Lucius’s training kicked in before his rage. He approached slowly, gently turning Blake’s face to the light. The bruise was fresh, maybe three or four hours old. There were finger marks on his son’s upper arm, barely visible under his sleeve.