Five years.The number sits in my head, heavy and sweet, like a shot of the top-shelf bourbon I now stock behind the bar.I wipe down the mahogany counter of The Iron Crown. It’s not sticky anymore. It doesn't smell of stale beer and desperation. It smells of espresso, expensive leather, and success.Sunlight streams through the plate-glass windows—bulletproof, naturally—illuminating the dust motes dancing in the afternoon air. The lunch rush is over. The place is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerators and the sound of a very small, very fast engine.VROOOM.A miniature black motorcycle tears across the polished concrete floor."Watch the corners, Elias!" I call out.My son drifts the electric toy bike around a table leg, his little boot skimming the floor just like his father’s does. He’s five years old, with a mop of dark curls and eyes that burn with an intensity that scares his kindergarten teachers.Drakon’s eyes."I got it, Mama!" Elias shouts, revving the plastic throttle
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