The candlelight in the booth flickered low, reflecting off the graveyard of silver platters that lay between them. Luca Vane sat slumped against the velvet upholstery, his face pale, his breathing shallow and labored. He had managed to clear the steak and the marrow, his small frame struggling to process the rich, heavy proteins Malcolm had forced upon him, but the mountain of truffle pasta and the creamed leeks remained half-finished, mocking him under the dim restaurant lights.
Malcolm Ford sat perfectly still, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his amber eyes tracking every slow, painful swallow the boy made.
"I... I can't, Mr. Ford," Luca whispered, his voice sounding small and tight. He dropped the fork, his hand trembling as he clutched his stomach. "Please. I feel... my stomach is in so much pain. I can't take another bite."
