Chapter 4 - The Debt Collector's Mistake
Twenty minutes later, two black armored SUVs idled smoothly along the curb of Loomis Street, their engines purring with low, heavy power.
Two discreet private paramedics in dark coats had already wrapped Elena in heated medical blankets, placing her on a collapsible stretcher with an oxygen line and portable IV fluids. Dominic carried Lily in his arms, his massive wool overcoat wrapped completely around her small frame, keeping the biting Chicago wind from touching her skin.
Just as the paramedics wheeled Elena through the ground-floor exit into the ambulance van, the glass entrance doors banged open violently.
Three men in heavy leather jackets and work boots stomped into the vestibule, smelling of cheap cigars and stale beer. At the front was Frankie "The Hook" Varga, Sal Russo’s chief neighborhood enforcer—a hulking man with a broken nose, a gold tooth, and a reputation for breaking bones over unpaid rent.
"Hey! What the hell is going on here?!" Frankie barked, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. He spotted the paramedics. "Who authorized a medical transport for Apartment 3B? That deadbeat broad owes Mr. Russo twelve hundred bucks in back rent, plus four hundred in late fees!"
Frankie took a threatening step forward, reaching out a beefy hand toward the stretcher. "Nobody leaves this building until I get my envelope, or I take her furniture to the pawn shop!"
Before Frankie’s fingers could come within three feet of the stretcher, a gloved hand clamped around his wrist.
The grip was iron.
Frankie gasped in shock, trying to pull away, but the bones in his wrist ground together under unbearable pressure. He looked up, his sneer freezing instantly as he found himself staring into the cold, murderous gray eyes of Dominic Vescari.
"You," Frankie choked out, the blood draining from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. "Mr... Mr. Vescari..."
The two thugs behind Frankie stumbled backward, their hands flying out of their pockets, raising their palms in sheer, paralyzing terror. In the Chicago underworld, you did not cross Dominic Vescari; you did not speak to Dominic Vescari without an invitation; and you certainly did not scream in his presence.
"You put an eviction notice on that door," Dominic said softly, his voice devoid of anger, which made it ten times more terrifying.
"Mr. Vescari, please—I didn't know—it was just business!" Frankie pleaded, dropping to his knees on the filthy linoleum as Dominic twisted his wrist a fraction of an inch further. "Sal Russo told us to clear the building for a new development! We didn't know who she was! I swear on my mother's grave, we didn't know!"
"She was a mother trying to keep a child warm," Dominic whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from Frankie’s ear. "And that child is my daughter."
Frankie let out a whimpering gasp of pure horror. "Oh God... have mercy, Mr. Vescari..."
Dominic released the enforcer's wrist, letting Frankie collapse onto the floor, clutching his bruised arm to his chest. Dominic reached inside his overcoat, pulled out his leather wallet, and extracted a crisp, folded stack of hundred-dollar bills.
He tossed the money onto Frankie’s lap.
"Twelve hundred for the rent," Dominic said, stepping over him toward the exit. "And four hundred for the late fee."
Dominic stopped at the threshold, turning his head slightly. "Tell Salvatore Russo that his lease on this city expires at midnight. If he is still within the state lines of Illinois when the sun rises tomorrow, I will bury him beneath the pier he bombed seven years ago."
May you like
Dominic walked out into the winter night, stepping into the back of his armored SUV beside Elena and Lily.
Behind them, Frankie remained on his knees in the slush, trembling violently, holding the sixteen hundred dollars as though it were burning radioactive waste.
