Chapter 2 - THE RECKONING ON CANAL STREET
The air inside Lombard’s back office grew so cold it felt like winter had breached the brick walls. Vincent Moretti did not move, but the subtle shift in his posture made the small room feel like a cage. His gray eyes, which had softened briefly when speaking of his late brother, hardened into twin chips of flint.
"What man, Lily?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Who told you a dead man's interest keeps growing?"
Lily swallowed hard, her fingers white around the silver pocket watch. The sheer contrast between her—soft, trembling, smelling of cheap lavender soap and restaurant grease—and Vincent, who looked like an apex predator evaluating a target, was staggering. She had spent five years running from the shadow of her father’s debt, moving from one dingy apartment to another, always paying in cash, always watching her back. Revealing the name felt like pulling the pin on a grenade.
"Marcus Vance," she whispered, the name tasting like ash in her mouth. "He operates out of a legal defense firm on Canal Street, but everyone knows the law firm is just a front. He handles high-interest street loans for people who have nowhere else to go. When my mom got sick, the experimental treatments weren't covered by insurance. Dad went to Vance. He borrowed forty thousand."
"And how much have you paid back?" Vincent asked, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
"Over the last six years? Close to ninety thousand," Lily said, a bitter, exhausted tear finally slipping down her cheek. "But every time I think I'm close, Vance's men show up at my apartment. They say there's a 'maintenance fee' or a 'risk premium.' Last month, they took my rent money right out of my purse. That's why I had to take this job. That's why I'm living in a room with no heat."
Vincent didn't look angry; he looked deeply, profoundly lethal. He reached into his tailored jacket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black smartphone. He pressed a speed dial button.
"Marco," Vincent said into the receiver, not waiting for a greeting. "Bring the car around to the back alley of Lombard's. And call Joey. Tell him we're making a stop on Canal Street. Bring the ledger for the independent operators."
He hung up without another word and stood, adjusting his cuffs. He looked down at Lily, his gaze sweeping over her badly pinned curls, her oversized apron, and the absolute terror radiating from her curvy frame.
"Take off the apron, Lily," he said, his tone commanding but oddly gentle.
"I—I have three hours left on my shift," she stammered, looking toward the office door. "Donato will fire me."
Vincent let out a short, humorless laugh. "Donato wouldn't fire you if you set this restaurant on fire in front of him. You are under my protection now. Take off the apron. We are going to close your account with Mr. Vance."
Five minutes later, Lily found herself being guided out the back door into the crisp Chicago night. A heavy black sedan sat idling in the alley, its exhaust pluming in the cold air. A massive man in a dark overcoat opened the rear door, bowing his head slightly as Vincent approached. Lily hesitated, her worn shoes stepping over a puddle of icy slush, but Vincent’s hand was steady on the small of her back, a warm, solid weight that anchored her.
As the sedan glided through the neon-lit streets of the city, Lily stared out the window, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was sitting next to Vincent Moretti, the man the entire city whispered about. Yet, as she stole a glance at him, she didn't see the monster the other waitresses feared. She saw a man carrying a massive burden of grief—a man who looked at her father's watch as if it were a holy relic.
The car pulled up outside a drab, three-story brick building on Canal Street. A brass plaque next to the door read Vance & Associates: Legal Consultations. The windows were dark, save for a single amber light glowing on the second floor.
"Stay in the car, Lily," Vincent said, opening his door.
"No," Lily said suddenly, surprised by her own sudden burst of courage. She gripped her father's watch tightly. "If you're going up there, I want to come. I've been afraid of him for six years. I want to see it end."
Vincent looked at her, his steel-gray eyes evaluating the stubborn set of her jaw and the way her soft, curvy frame seemed to steel itself against the fear. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "All right. But stay behind me."
They walked into the building, flanked by Marco and another silent, imposing man named Joey. The stairs creaked under their weight. When they reached the second-floor office, Joey didn't bother knocking; he simply kicked the lock, the heavy wooden door splintering open with a deafening crash.
Inside, a man in a rumpled gray suit jumped up from behind a desk covered in paperwork. Marcus Vance was balding, sweaty, and had the nervous eyes of a gambler who knew his luck had just run out.
"What the hell is this?!" Vance shouted, his hand instinctively darting toward a half-open desk drawer.
"Touch that drawer, Marcus, and Joey will remove your hand at the wrist," Vincent said smoothly, walking into the room as if he owned the building. He pulled out a leather chair across from Vance's desk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.
Vance’s eyes darted from Joey’s massive frame to Vincent’s face. The color instantly drained from the loan shark's skin. "Moretti. Don Vincent. I—I didn't know this was your territory. There's been a mistake."
"The mistake," Vincent said, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk, "is that you have been collecting blood money from the daughter of Arthur Harper."
Vance blinked, his gaze shifting to Lily, who stood just behind Vincent’s shoulder. "Her? She’s just a client. Her father owed—"
"Her father is a ghost who bought my brother's life with his own," Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the windows rattle slightly. "Which means every dollar you took from this girl was a dollar stolen from the Moretti family. Joey, open the safe."
Joey moved past Vance like a freight train, ignoring the man’s weak protests. Within two minutes, the office safe was pried open. Joey pulled out a thick stack of ledger books and a massive pile of banded cash.
"How much did she pay you over the last six years, Marcus?" Vincent asked.
"I—I don't know exactly, maybe fifty thousand—"
"Ninety-two thousand, four hundred," Lily spoke up, her voice clear and strong for the first time in her life. "I kept every receipt."
Vincent nodded once to Joey. Joey counted out one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Vance’s safe and slammed it down onto the desk in front of Lily.
"Consider the extra sixty thousand interest on our terms, Marcus," Vincent said, standing up. "If I see you, your men, or your name within three blocks of Lily Harper ever again, I won't send Joey with a crowbar. I will handle it myself. Do we understand each other?"
Vance nodded frantically, sweating profusely, looking like he was about to vomit.
May you like
Vincent turned to Lily, offering his arm. "Come, Lily. Let’s get you out of this filthy place."
As they walked back down the creaking stairs, Lily felt a strange, intoxicating sensation washing over her. For the first time since she was sixteen years old, the suffocating weight on her chest was gone. She wasn't a victim anymore. But as she looked at the stack of cash in Joey’s hands and the powerful man beside her, she realized she hadn't just escaped a predator—she had just entered the inner circle of the king.
