Chapter 2 - The Shadows of South Side
The rain from the previous night had turned into a bitter, slate-gray sleet that clung to the windshield of my armored Lincoln as I drove unannounced into the heart of the South Side. In my world, information was currency, and by dawn, my most trusted caporegime, Sal, had handed me a dossier thicker than a phone book detailing Tessa Cole’s life.
It wasn't a pretty read.
Tessa lived in a dilapidated two-story walk-up on 63rd Street, an area where the police rarely patrolled unless sirens were already wailing. Her father hadn't just left; he had vanished under a mountain of predatory payday loans, leaving behind a crumbling roof, faulty plumbing, and two boys—Leo, nine, and Toby, eleven—who were trying to grow up in a neighborhood that chewed children alive and spat them out.
I parked half a block away, sitting quietly in the shadows, watching the entrance of her building. At 6:30 AM, the front door creaked open. Tessa stepped out, wrapped in a threadbare coat that looked like it had survived three Chicago winters too many. She was holding two canvas school bags, her shoulders hunched against the freezing wind as she walked toward the bus stop.
She was working a morning shift at a diner downtown before coming to my estate for her evening cleaning duties. Twenty-six years old. Her hands were raw, chapped from industrial cleaning chemicals and freezing water.
I pulled my fedora down slightly, feeling an unfamiliar weight pressing against my ribs. In my line of work, weakness was a death sentence. Compassion was a liability. But looking at Tessa walk into that biting wind, I didn't see an employee violating kitchen protocols. I saw a soldier fighting a war she had no mathematical chance of winning alone.
When Sal slid into the passenger seat a few minutes later, smelling of espresso and damp wool, he didn't look at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the windshield.
“The apartment is worse than the paperwork suggests, Boss,” Sal murmured, his voice gravelly. “The landlord is a sleazebag named Marcus Vance. Slumlord type. Charges quadruple rent because he knows the tenants have nowhere else to go. He’s been threatening eviction for three months because Tessa fell behind when she had to pay for the youngest boy’s asthma medication.”
I tapped my fingers against the leather steering wheel. “Marcus Vance. Isn’t that the guy who runs those illegal sports betting dens on the West Side without paying tribute to us?”
Sal offered a grim, humorless smile. “The very same one, Boss.”
“Pay him a visit,” I said smoothly, my eyes narrowing as I watched the empty bus stop where Tessa had just stood. “Tell him his debt to the neighborhood is cleared in full—on one condition. The deed to 438 South 63rd Street is transferred into a clean trust bearing Tessa Cole’s name by noon today. And make sure he understands that if a single lightbulb flickers or a pipe leaks in that building ever again, he’ll be fixing plumbing lines at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”
May you like
Sal chuckled, pocketing his keys. “Consider it done, Dominic. What about the loansharks?”
“Find every last one of them who holds paper on her family,” I commanded, the cold authority of a Chicago mob boss settling heavily over the car. “Buy the debt. Every single cent. Then burn the paper in front of my fireplace tonight. Nobody bleeds the people who work in my house.”
