Chapter 3 - The Shadow of the Past
By noon, Vincent was sitting in the back room of L’Anima, an upscale Italian restaurant in the Loop that served as his informal headquarters. Sitting across from him was Marcus, his head of security—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his ear to his jawline.
"I ran the names, boss," Marcus said, laying a thick manila folder on the linen tablecloth. "Elena's late husband was Julian Vulkoff. Low-level broker who got wrapped up in underground gambling. He took out a massive loan from Sal Moretti's crew in South Chicago six months before he crashed his car off the bridge."
Vincent didn't touch his wine. "Moretti. He's bleeding a widow?"
"Worse," Marcus replied quietly. "Moretti's guys realized Julian had a life insurance policy, but the company denied the payout due to the circumstances of the crash. So Moretti transferred the debt to Elena. They’ve been squeezing her for two thousand a week in 'interest' alone. She’s been selling her belongings, working twelve-hour shifts here, and skipping meals just to keep them from touching the boy."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. "And the kid?"
"Leo Vulkoff. Seven years old. End-stage renal failure. He needs a transplant, boss. Northwestern Medical has a donor match lined up, but the administrative board won't clear the surgery without a guarantee of payment for the post-operative care. The board director is Doctor Harold Vance."
"Vance," Vincent repeated, his eyes darkening. "He takes my foundation’s donations every year."
"Yeah. But Vance plays by the book when it comes to uninsured patients. He told Elena she had until this Friday to clear the deposit, or the donor organ goes to the next person on the list."
Vincent stood up, buttoning his jacket with slow, deliberate precision. "Get the car."
"Where are we going, Mr. Marcelli? To see Moretti?"
"First, we pay a visit to Doctor Vance," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave into pure malice. "Then, we handle the trash in South Chicago."
An hour later, Doctor Harold Vance was sitting in his spacious corner office at Northwestern Memorial when the door opened without a knock. He looked up in annoyance, ready to berate the intruder, but the words died in his throat when he saw Vincent Marcelli walk in, flanked by Marcus.
"Mr. Marcelli!" Vance stammered, quickly standing up and offering a hand that Vincent completely ignored. "I... I wasn't expecting you today. Is the Marcelli Family Foundation planning the annual autumn gala early?"
Vincent sat down in the leather chair opposite Vance, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm here about a patient, Harold. Leo Vulkoff."
Vance blinked, caught entirely off guard. "Leo Vulkoff? The... the pediatric kidney case? How do you know about him?"
"His mother cleans my house," Vincent said simply. "And I hear you're delaying his surgery over fifty thousand dollars."
"Mr. Marcelli, you must understand," Vance stammered, sweat instantly breaking out on his forehead. "Hospital policy is absolute. Post-operative care for a pediatric transplant requires extensive immune-suppressant therapy. If the family cannot demonstrate financial stability—"
"I am the financial stability," Vincent cut in, tossing a heavy black card onto the desk. "Put the surgery on this. Schedule the operation for tomorrow morning. Clear the best surgical suite you have, and assign your top pediatric chief."
Vance looked at the card, then back at Vincent's unblinking eyes. "Tomorrow? But the administrative board—"
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"If that boy doesn't have a new kidney by tomorrow afternoon, Harold," Vincent whispered, leaning closer until Vance could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne and cold steel, "I will pull every cent of my foundation's funding from this hospital. And then I will buy this building, just so I can fire you personally. Am I clear?"
Vance swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he grabbed the card. "Crystal clear, Mr. Marcelli. I'll... I'll prepare the operating room immediately."
