Chapter 2 - The Audit of Blood
The back of Vincent’s custom Mercedes Maybach was quiet, warm, and smelled of expensive leather and cedarwood. Rain lashed against the tinted windows as the heavy car glided effortlessly down Rush Street toward River North.
Clara sat pressed against the leather door, her hands folded in her lap, staring at her lap. Vincent sat beside her, his long legs stretched out, his eyes fixed on his phone as he typed out a series of brief, encrypted messages.
"Where are we going?" Clara asked softly as the car bypassed her apartment building on Erie Street and turned south toward the Loop.
"My office," Vincent said without looking up from his screen.
"I live on Erie Street," she said, her voice rising with panic. "I told your driver—"
"Your apartment isn't safe, Clara," Vincent said, stowing his phone in his breast pocket and finally turning to look at her. "Half an hour ago, two collection agents hired by an off-book loan shark were standing in your hallway. Your ex-boyfriend didn't just steal your money, Clara. He took out a two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan from a mob-affiliated lender in Cicero using your name and your social security number as collateral."
Clara felt the blood drain from her face. Her vision swam. "What?"
"Brandon Pierce," Vincent said, pronouncing the name with absolute disgust. "Thirty-one years old. Former mid-level analyst at Harrington & Lowe. He’s currently staying at a luxury hotel in Miami, spending your life savings on bottle service and cocaine while his lenders prepare to break your legs to collect their interest."
Clara pressed her back against the seat, tears finally spilling over her lashes, tracing hot paths down her full cheeks. "Oh God. Oh God, no... I didn't sign anything. I swear I didn't!"
"I know you didn't," Vincent said gently. He reached across the leather seat, his large hand wrapping around her cold, trembling fingers, squeezing them firmly. "Your signature was forged. Poorly, I might add. But the men he borrowed from don't care about handwriting analysis. They only care about getting paid."
"Why are you telling me this?" Clara sobbed, covering her mouth with her free hand. "Why do you care? I don't know you!"
Vincent looked at her for a long, heavy moment. His gray eyes burned with an intensity that sent shivers through her spine.
"Because Brandon Pierce thinks he’s clever," Vincent said quietly. "And I despise men who hide behind women they’ve ruined. More importantly, Clara... he stole from a firm that cleans money for my enemies. Which means your ex-boyfriend inadvertently made himself my problem."
The Maybach pulled into the underground parking garage of a soaring glass skyscraper on Michigan Avenue. The heavy iron security gate rattled shut behind them, sealing out the city, the rain, and the cruel world outside.
Leo opened the car door. Vincent stepped out first, then extended his hand to Clara.
She looked at his broad, open palm. She knew who he was now. She wasn't stupid. The signet ring, the armed guards, the casually terrifying knowledge of her entire life—Vincent Moretti was the head of the Moretti crime syndicate. A man the newspapers only spoke about in hushed, frightened whispers.
He was the most dangerous man in Chicago.
And yet, as she looked at his hand, she knew he was the only thing standing between her and total destruction.
Clara placed her hand in his.
May you like
Vincent pulled her out of the car, keeping his arm firmly around her waist to steady her as he led her toward the private executive elevator.
"Tonight, you sleep," Vincent said as the elevator doors closed, rising swiftly toward the penthouse suite. "Tomorrow, you give me every record, every spreadsheet, and every password you have from Harrington & Lowe. And by Sunday, Brandon Pierce will wish he had never been born."
