Chapter 3 - The Cold Ledger
At precisely four o'clock, Dante sat in his mahogany-paneled library, surrounded by first-edition leather bindings and the soft ticking of a grandfather clock that had stood in the corner since 1912. Across the sprawling desk of dark Italian walnut, Marco laid down an unbranded manila folder. The document inside contained only six pages, but each word had been verified through wire taps and back-alley informants.
""Julian Rossi,"" Marco began, his finger tapping the top corner of a grainy mugshot. ""Small-time grifter, heavy heroin user, habitual gambler. Ran lines of credit with Mickey Vane's crew down at the Brooklyn docks. Borrowed eighty grand three years ago to play high-stakes poker in an underground room on 4th Avenue. Lost every cent in two hours. He died six months later behind a dumpster on Atlantic Avenue.""
Dante leaned back in his leather wing chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. ""And Mickey Vane thinks a widow scrubbing kitchen tiles is good for eighty thousand dollars?""
""With interest and late fees, Vane is demanding two hundred and ten thousand,"" Marco answered coldly. ""He sent two collectors to her old apartment in Queens last spring. Smashed up the place, broke her brother's collarbone. That's why she ran out here to Long Island and took a scullery job under her maiden name. Vane finally tracked her burner phone two months ago through an offshore cell tower. He's been squeezing her for two thousand every Friday. If she misses a payment, he promised to bring Sophie down to an unlicensed brothel in Newark.""
The room plunged into absolute zero. Dante didn't move a single muscle, but Marco instinctively took half a step backward. In the underworld, Dante Moretti was known for his icy restraint; he rarely raised his voice, and he never threw tantrums. But when his eyes shifted from dark brown to that flat, unreadable obsidian shade, it meant someone's life was about to be extinguished like a match dropped in a bucket of kerosene.
""Mickey Vane,"" Dante repeated softly, tasting the name like cheap wine. ""The rat who runs grease traps on the docks and skims off the Teamsters' pension. He dares to reach inside my gates? He dares to threaten children under the roof of the Moretti name?""
""He doesn't know she works for you, boss,"" Marco clarified quickly. ""He only has her cell location pinned to a five-mile radius in Nassau County. He thinks she's living in a motel room or working in a diner.""
Dante stood up slowly, smoothing the front of his vest. He walked to the bay window overlooking the rear gardens, where twilight was beginning to bleed purple and black across the Atlantic horizon. ""A six-year-old girl came into my rose garden this morning, Marco. She placed her wooden music box on my table. She offered to work off her mother's debt with her own two hands.""
Marco stared at his boss, completely struck dumb. ""She... what?""
""She had more honor in her little finger than the entire commission sitting in Manhattan,"" Dante murmured, his voice laced with an ancient, dangerous venom. ""Bring Anna Rossi up here. Now.""
May you like
""Sir, she's terrified of her own shadow,"" Marco warned gently. ""If I drag her up to your personal study, she may collapse from sheer panic.""
""Then do not drag her,"" Dante said, turning his cold gaze upon his loyal lieutenant. ""Escort her. With the dignity befitting someone whose debt has just been purchased by the Moretti family.""
