The bar went silent.

The black SUVs idled outside, their headlights cutting through the rain on the windows.

Rex Dalton took one slow step back.

“Who are you?”

The old man stood carefully, brushing glass from his sleeve like it was nothing.

Behind him, the door opened.

Men in dark suits entered one by one.

But they didn’t look at Rex.

They looked at the old man.

And lowered their heads.

The old man walked toward Rex with calm, tired eyes.

“Twenty years ago, your father sat at this same table,” he said. “Begging me to spare his life.”

Rex’s mouth went dry.

“My father?”

The old man nodded.

“He was cruel too. Loud too. Until he learned fear.”

Rex looked around, but the bikers who had laughed with him were no longer smiling.

The old man reached into his coat and placed an old silver ring on the table.

A wolf’s head.

The entire bar froze.

One biker whispered, “Dalton kneels to him.”

Rex’s face drained.

“No,” he whispered. “You’re dead.”

The old man’s lips barely moved.

“I was.”

Then he leaned closer, his voice almost gentle.

“But when your father died, he asked me to protect one thing.”

Rex swallowed.

“What thing?”

The old man’s eyes turned colder.

“His son. From becoming him.”