Chapter 5 - The Reckoning in South Chicago
The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by the time Vincent’s black SUV pulled into the alley behind an unmarked social club in South Chicago.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of cigar smoke, cheap bourbon, and stale sweat. Sal Moretti sat at a round poker table in the back room, surrounded by three of his heavily armed enforcers, counting stacks of crumpled hundred-dollar bills.
The heavy metal door of the club suddenly blew inward with a deafening crash, hinges tearing straight out of the brick frame.
Moretti's men scrambled for their weapons, but before they could clear their holsters, four of Vincent's men swept into the room, silencers raised, locking the targets in place with absolute military efficiency.
Vincent walked into the smoke-filled room calmly, unbuttoning his coat and resting his hands in his pockets.
Sal Moretti’s face turned pale gray. He dropped his cigar onto the felt. "Marcelli? What the hell is this? This is my territory!"
"Your territory exists because I allow it to exist, Sal," Vincent said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion as he walked over to the table. He reached out and picked up a stack of cash, letting the bills flutter slowly to the floor. "You've been stepping out of line."
"I haven't touched your business, Vincent!" Sal spluttered, sweat pouring down his double chin. "We keep to ourselves down here!"
"You've been extorting a widow," Vincent said softly. "Elena Vulkoff."
Sal hesitated, his eyes darting frantically toward his men. "Julian Vulkoff owed me three hundred grand! A debt is a debt, Marcelli! That’s the rule of the street!"
Vincent took two steps forward, leaning down until his face was inches from Moretti's. "Julian Vulkoff is dead. And his widow works for me."
"I... I didn't know!" Moretti stammered, pulling back in terror. "If I knew she was yours, I never would have—"
"She isn't 'mine'," Vincent interrupted coldly. "She is under my protection. There is a difference. And you threatened her child."
"We were just squeezing her for cash! We weren't gonna hurt the kid!"
Vincent didn't argue. He simply raised his hand. Marcus stepped forward and handed Vincent a heavy leather briefcase, slamming it down onto the poker table.
"In that case is three hundred thousand dollars," Vincent said. "It pays Julian Vulkoff's debt in full. Every single cent."
Sal stared at the briefcase, bewildered. "You're... you're paying her debt?"
"I am buying the debt," Vincent corrected, his eyes flashing with a terrifying light. "And now, Sal, you are going to write a receipt. A signed document stating that the Vulkoff family owes you nothing. And if I, or any of my people, ever see you or your scum within five miles of Elena or her son again..."
Vincent leaned closer, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
"...I won't send my men. I will come back here myself."
Sal didn't hesitate. With shaking hands, he grabbed a pen and a piece of paper, scribbling out the receipt as fast as his fingers could move, stamping it with his personal ring before shoving it across the table.
May you like
Vincent picked up the paper, checked it over, and tucked it neatly into his inner suit pocket.
"Good," Vincent said, turning his back on the mobster. "Keep the cash, Sal. Consider it your retirement fund. Because if I hear your name in this city tomorrow, you won't live to spend it."
