Chapter 3 - THE ACCOUNTANT'S LEDGER

Vincent Marcelli did not sleep that night.

By 3:00 a.m., he was sitting behind the massive walnut desk in his private study, illuminated only by the green glow of a banker’s lamp. On the desk lay a thick yellow folder marked VULKOFF, ELENA.

Frank stood across from him, looking thoroughly bewildered by his boss's sudden demand for personal HR files at three in the morning.

"Read it to me," Vincent commanded, his voice cold, heavy, and low.

Frank opened the file. "Elena Vulkoff. Twenty-eight years old. Hired eighteen months ago through the secondary estate agency. Perfect record. No criminal history. Her husband, David Vulkoff, was an independent mechanic who took out a loan from a loan shark affiliated with the Santos gang two years ago."

Vincent’s eyes narrowed into slits of deadly grey ice. "The Santos gang?"

"Yes, boss," Frank continued, scanning the paper. "David died in a shop fire six months later—suspicious, but listed as accidental. They dumped his debt onto Elena. She’s been paying off eighty percent of her paycheck to Santos’s collectors every Friday just to keep them away from her son."

Vincent slammed his heavy fist onto the wooden desk so hard the green lamp rattled violently.

"She’s been paying loan sharks from my paycheck?" Vincent growled, the rage in his chest threatening to ignite the very air in the room. "And her son?"

"Leo Vulkoff. Six years old," Frank read. "Severe chronic asthma and immune deficiency. Needs specialized pulmonary treatment at Chicago Children's. The insurance provided by our third-party housekeeping agency doesn't cover pre-existing pediatric conditions."

Vincent stood up slowly, stepping toward the high arched windows that looked out over his manicured lawns.

For eighteen months, this woman had cleaned his floors, ironed his shirts, and greeted him with a soft, genuine smile while carrying a burden that would have broken strong men. She was starving herself so her son could eat high-grade protein from his kitchen scraps.

"Frank," Vincent spoke, his voice dropping into a register that signaled absolute, uncompromising war.

"Sir?"

"Who is running the Santos crew in Garfield Park now?"

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"A low-level enforcer named Hector," Frank replied. "He operates out of an auto body shop on 5th Street."

Vincent pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, snapping it shut with a loud click. "Call Marco. Tell him to pull three tactical teams. We are taking a drive."