Chapter 3 - The Perimeter of South Philly
The Lincoln’s high beams cut through the swirling sleet, illuminating the hulking frame of Igor standing on Tess’s porch. The collector didn't move off the steps; he merely squinted through the glare, spitting a handful of sunflower seed shells onto the icy wooden planks.
Beside Dominic, Tess’s breath hitched sharply. Her hands clamped down on her canvas tote, her body going rigid. “Stay in the car,” she whispered, her voice laced with sudden, genuine panic. “He... he’s just here for the envelope. I have ninety dollars in my bag.”
Dominic didn't look at her. He unbuttoned his overcoat with a single, fluid motion of his left hand, ensuring his right arm remained free.
“Dean,” Dominic said softly.
“Got it, boss,” Dean replied. He reached beneath the dashboard, unholstered a suppressed Glock 19, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and clicked open his driver’s side door.
“Wait!” Tess demanded, reaching out to grab Dominic’s sleeve. Her fingers caught the heavy wool of his coat. “My son is inside that house! If you start a war on my porch—”
Dominic turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a force that made her speech stumble. “Teresa, a war requires two equal sides. This is a property cleanup.”
He opened his door and stepped out into the freezing night, his boots crunching on the thin layer of ice coating the sidewalk. Dean moved ahead of him, taking a wide path around the front fender of the Lincoln to cut off Igor’s angle to the alleyway.
Igor recognized the car a second too late. His glass eye remained fixed straight ahead, but his good eye widened as he took in Dominic’s dark overcoat and Dean’s practiced, lateral march. He slowly took his hands out of his bomber jacket pockets, holding them at chest height, palms out.
“Dominic,” Igor said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble accented by thick Eastern European vowels. “I didn't know this was your street. I am working for Gregori. Just collection.”
Dominic climbed the three wooden steps of the porch, stopping eighteen inches from the larger man. He did not look up at Igor’s face; he looked at the wet sunflower seed shells scattered near the front door.
“You’re standing on my property line, Igor,” Dominic said quietly.
“This building belongs to Vlasov Enterprises,” Igor countered defensively, taking a half-step back against the window frame. “The girl owes rent. Two months. Twenty-one hundred dollars. Gregori sent me to get the interest.”
“The girl feeds my mother,” Dominic replied, his voice dropping an octave. “Which means her debt is no longer held by Vlasov. It is held by me.”
Igor frowned, his good eye darting toward Dean, who was standing at the base of the steps, his hand resting inside his heavy coat pocket. “Gregori won't like this, Dominic. It’s business. She signed a lease.”
Dominic reached out, grabbed Igor by the thick leather lapel of his bomber jacket, and yanked him down six inches until their faces were inches apart. The speed of the move was startling, born of years of violent instinct. “Tell Gregori that if I see you sitting on this porch while that child is playing outside again, I will personally feed you that glass eye. Do you understand me?”
Igor swallowed hard, his breath smelling of sour garlic and tobacco. “I understand.”
“Now clear off my street.”
Dominic let go of the jacket. Igor scrambled down the steps, his boots slipping slightly on the icy wood, and hurried down the dark alley without looking back.
Dominic turned around. Tess was standing at the base of the porch steps, the yellow rain poncho billowing around her in the wind. She was staring at him, her lips parted in disbelief and anger.
“Are you insane?” she hissed, marching up the steps until she was standing in front of him. “He works for Vlasov! Vlasov controls the entire lower block! Now he’s going to come back with three more of them, and my landlord is going to throw my furniture into the gutter!”
“Vlasov won't do anything,” Dominic said, walking past her toward the front door. “Vlasov enjoys breathing. Now unlock the door. It’s freezing out here.”
“This isn't your house!” she snapped, blocking the keyhole with her shoulder. “You don't get to come into my life, beat up my landlord’s muscle, and dictate how I handle my business! I had a plan!”
“Your plan was dying in a parking lot with a dead alternator while a collector ate seeds on your porch,” Dominic said flatly. “That’s not a plan, Teresa. That’s an execution schedule.”
He reached past her, took the brass key directly out of her shivering hand, inserted it into the lock, and turned it. The door swung open, revealing a tiny, narrow hallway smelling of lemon cleaner and damp carpet.
Inside the small living room, a teenage girl was sitting on a worn corduroy sofa watching a quiet television screen, while little Sammy lay fast asleep under a hand-knit blanket in the corner, his green crayon still clutched in his small fist.
Tess hurried inside, dropping her bag onto a chair. She paid the teenager with two crumpled twenty-dollar bills from her purse and escorted the girl to the door. Once the door was locked, she turned back to Dominic, who was standing in the center of her tiny living room, looking at the faded wallpaper and the framed drawing of a dinosaur taped to the wall.
“Get out,” she whispered, keeping her voice low so as not to wake her son. “Please. Just get out.”
Dominic looked at her. Up close, without the yellow poncho, she looked impossibly fragile, her shoulders curved under the weight of sheer physical fatigue. But beneath the exhaustion lay a fierce, unyielding pride that refused to bend.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, black plastic card bearing an embossed telephone number. He laid it gently on the small laminate side table beside the sleeping boy.
“That’s Dean’s direct line,” Dominic said. “A flatbed tow truck will be at the linen plant tomorrow at eight to tow your Honda to a shop in Girard. It will be fixed by noon. Don't worry about the bill.”
“I won't accept it,” she said, her chin rising.
“It’s not a gift, Teresa,” Dominic replied, moving toward the door. “It’s an advance on your new salary.”
She froze. “My what?”
“You’re done at the linen plant,” Dominic said, his hand resting on the brass door handle. “Starting Monday, you work for me. Five hundred dollars a week, cash. Your only job is to ensure my mother takes her medicine and my father doesn't burn the kitchen down.”
“I’m not your servant, Mr. Bruno.”
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“No,” Dominic said, turning his cold, unreadable gaze back to her. “You’re the only person in South Philly who isn't afraid to tell me to take my money back. That makes you useful. Be at number forty-four at eight AM on Monday.”
Before she could respond, he stepped out into the icy night, closing the door firmly behind him.
