Chapter 4 - The Debt Collected
The basement apartment building on 47th Street was a decaying, mold-infested concrete monstrosity. Water dripped from cracked ceiling pipes, grease coated the narrow stairwells, and the smell of garbage hung heavy in the air.
At 2:00 AM, Arthur Gillespie was sitting in his warm, heated landlord office on the ground floor, drinking cheap whiskey and counting a stack of crinkled twenty-dollar bills under a bare lightbulb.
Gillespie was a thick, greasy man in his late fifties with a protruding stomach and yellowed teeth.
Suddenly, the heavy steel front door of his office didn't just open—it exploded inward off its hinges, crashing against the concrete wall with a sound like a grenade going off.
Gillespie jumped out of his chair, dropping his whiskey glass, reaching for a revolver on his desk. "What the hell—!"
Before his hand could touch the gun, a heavy gloved hand reached across the desk, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted his two-hundred-pound body off the floor like a sack of wet flour.
Gillespie gasped, kicking his legs frantically as his back was slammed hard against the brick wall.
Dominic Vale stood before him, flanked by four massive, silhouetted enforcers in black coats. Dominic was wearing his dark suit, his face illuminated by the harsh overhead light, his silver eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated malice.
"Arthur Gillespie?" Dominic asked smoothly, his grip tightening until Gillespie’s face turned a violent shade of purple.
"Who... who are you?" Gillespie choked out, clawing frantically at Dominic’s iron fingers.
"I am the man who owns the woman you left without heat in a Chicago winter," Dominic whispered, bringing his face inches from Gillespie’s.
Gillespie’s eyes widened in sheer, naked terror as he recognized the face. Every landlord on the South Side knew Dominic Vale. He wasn't just a landlord's nightmare; he was the apex predator of the city’s underground.
"The... the art girl?" Gillespie squeaked out, his chest heaving. "The one with the two kids?! I... I didn't know! I swear to God I didn't know she was yours!"
Dominic set him down—not gently, but slamming him into his swivel chair so hard the plastic wheels shattered.
Dominic leaned over the desk, resting his hands on the wood.
"You turned off the heat on a mother and two toddlers for fifty dollars," Dominic said, his voice dangerously soft.
"I'll... I'll give her the apartment for free!" Gillespie sobbed, holding his throat, sweat pouring down his forehead. "She can stay forever! No rent! I'll fix the pipes! I'll buy a new heater!"
Dominic let out a short, dry laugh that sent shivers down Gillespie’s spine.
"She is never stepping foot in this slum again," Dominic said. "Carlo."
Carlo stepped forward, placing a thick leather binder on the desk.
"As of five minutes ago," Dominic explained, "my legal team purchased the mortgage on this building, along with every other property you own in Cook County. You no longer own this building, Mr. Gillespie. I do."
Gillespie blinked, stunned. "What?"
"And as the new owner," Dominic continued, taking a step back and buttoning his suit jacket, "I have decided to renovate this entire block. Starting tonight."
He turned toward the door.
"Turn off the power," Dominic commanded his men. "Turn off the gas. Turn off the water. Seize his bank accounts for code violations. Leave him fifty dollars in cash, a pair of worn sneakers, and a torn coat. Then throw him out into the rain."
"No! Please! You can't do this! It's freezing outside!" Gillespie shrieked, scrambling off his chair, reaching for Dominic’s pants leg.
Carlo stepped forward, his heavy combat boot striking Gillespie squarely in the chest, knocking him flat onto his back.
"Consider yourself lucky, old man," Carlo growled, standing over him. "The Boss promised his wife he wouldn't kill you. He didn't promise you wouldn't freeze."
Dominic walked out of the building into the cool night air, leaving Gillespie’s frantic screams fading behind him.
He climbed into the back of his vehicle and pulled out his encrypted phone.
There were twenty missed calls from Anthony Bellini, the boss of the New York syndicate.
Dominic pressed the call button.
It rang once before a booming, furious voice roared through the speaker.
"Vale! What the hell is the meaning of this?!" Anthony Bellini screamed from Manhattan. "My daughter called me crying from an airport terminal! You pointed a gun at her?! You canceled our merger over some street girl?! Have you lost your mind?!"
Dominic rested his arm on the door, watching the snow fall over the Chicago skyline.
"Listen to me carefully, Anthony," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute steel. "Your daughter insulted my wife and my sons. The only reason she is currently breathing air in an airport terminal is because I was in a merciful mood."
A heavy silence fell over the line. Anthony Bellini was a powerful man, but he was smart enough to recognize the tone of a man who had nothing left to fear.
"Sons?" Bellini whispered, his anger suddenly wavering into shock. "You... you have sons?"
"Two heirs," Dominic replied flatly. "Legitimate, blood-born Vales. The Vale family does not need New York. We do not need your alliance. If you accept the cancellation of the contract quietly, our shipping routes remain open to you. If you send one soldier across the Illinois state line to avenge your daughter's pride, I will wipe the Bellini family off the map."
There was a long, agonizing pause on the other end of the line.
Finally, Anthony Bellini let out a long, heavy sigh.
"The contract is void," Bellini said quietly. "Keep your city, Vale."
The line went dead.
Dominic slid the phone back into his pocket, a small, dark smile touching his lips.
May you like
The past was dead. The debts were collected.
Now, it was time to go home to his family.
