Chapter 4 - The Price of Protection
At 10:00 AM, the heavy oak doors of my study opened, and Sal Viti was shoved into the room by two of my armed guards.
Viti was a slimy man in his mid-forties, wearing an expensive track suit that couldn't hide his nervous sweat. He looked around my massive study—at the bulletproof glass windows, the surveillance monitors, and the four armed men standing silently against the mahogany walls—and swallowed hard.
When his eyes landed on me sitting behind the desk in my wheelchair, a flicker of dark recognition crossed his face, quickly buried beneath a nervous, oily smile.
"Mr. Vance!" Viti stammered, spreading his hands in a theatrical gesture. "It's... it's an honor, sir! A real honor! I haven't seen you since... well, since the incident."
I didn't answer. I sat quietly, staring at him with unblinking eyes.
The silence stretched out for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds until Viti began fidgeting, wiping sweat from his upper lip with the sleeve of his tracksuit.
"I... I brought the papers you asked for," Viti stammered, pulling a crumpled stack of legal documents from his jacket pocket and placing them on the edge of my desk. "Emma Carter's loan agreement. Fifteen thousand principle, plus... well, interest."
Luke stepped forward, picked up the documents, and handed them to me.
I looked down at the paper. Emma's handwriting was small, neat, and desperate at the bottom of the page, signing away her future to a predator.
"How much does she owe you today, Sal?" I asked, my voice low and quiet.
"With interest? Around twenty-eight grand, Mr. Vance," Viti said, regaining a tiny shred of his confidence. "Business is business, you know how it is. I gave her the cash when nobody else would—"
I opened my middle desk drawer, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in brown paper, and tossed it onto the mahogany top.
"There's fifty thousand dollars," I said flatly.
Viti's eyes lit up with instant greed. He reached out to grab the money, but before his fingers could touch the paper, Luke stepped forward and slammed a combat knife straight through the center of the stack, embedding the blade two inches into the hardwood desk.
Viti jumped back with a yelp, clutching his chest.
"That fifty thousand is for the loan," I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "And the remaining twenty-two thousand is for your silence."
Viti blinked, trembling. "My... my silence?"
"If you, your men, or anyone associated with your pathetic little crew ever walks within five hundred feet of Emma Carter, her mother, or the diner she works at," I whispered, every word carved out of ice, "I won't just kill you, Sal. I'll buy your meatpacking plant, tear it down, and bury you under the concrete foundation."
Viti stared at me, his face turning gray. He looked at the knife buried in the money, then at the lethal resolve in my eyes. He realized in that instant that even in a wheelchair, Danny Vance was still the most dangerous predator in Chicago.
"I... I understand, Mr. Vance," Viti squeaked. "She doesn't owe me a dime. I never saw her. I don't even know her name."
"Get out of my house," I said.
Viti didn't wait for a second invitation. He turned and practically sprinted out of the study, escorted by two guards who slammed the doors shut behind him.
I looked at Luke. "Call the director of the Evanston Memory Care Pavilion."
"Already on the line, Boss," Luke said, handing me the desk phone.
"This is Danny Vance," I spoke into the receiver. "I'm transferring half a million dollars to your facility's private trust account today. I want Martha Carter moved to your penthouse medical suite immediately. Top doctors, twenty-four-hour private nursing, and full coverage for the rest of her life."
The director on the other end stammered in shock. "Mr. Vance... that's extraordinary generous! Should I inform Miss Carter?"
"No," I said, looking down at the signed loan agreement on my desk. "If she asks, tell her an anonymous charity trust covered it. If you tell her my name, I'll buy your hospital and fire you."
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I hung up the phone.
I picked up the loan document, pulled out my silver lighter, and set the paper on fire, watching it burn into black ash inside the crystal ashtray on my desk.
