Chapter 5 - The Reckoning on South StreetTwo nights later, an unmarked black SUV rolled silently down the cracked, rain-slicked asphalt of South Street in working-class Boston.
The neighborhood was a maze of tired triple-deckers and flickering streetlamps. Number 412 was a peeling gray house with a rusted chain-link fence. Inside, through the warped living room window, a television blared static and late-night infomercials.
Vince killed the engine three houses down.
“You don't need to go in yourself, sir,” Vince muttered, reaching for his door handle. “I can handle a junkie with a bad attitude.”
“No,” I replied, opening my door and stepping out into the chilly drizzle. “I want to deliver a message personally.”
We walked up the creaking wooden steps of 412 South Street without knocking. I simply turned the brass doorknob—unlocked, as usual in neighborhoods where people thought they had nothing left to steal—and pushed the door open.
The stench of stale beer, cheap tobacco, and unwashed laundry hit us instantly.
Sitting in front of a flickering television was a man in his late twenties with greasy dark hair, bloodshot eyes, and a beer bottle gripped tightly in his fist. Marcus Vance didn't even notice us enter until Vince’s heavy boot clicked loudly against the linoleum floor.
Marcus jerked his head around, spilling amber liquid down his stained sweatshirt. “What the hell? Who let you in? Get the fuck out of my house!”
He scrambled up from the ratty sofa, his eyes wide and panicked as he realized we weren't local bill collectors. We wore bespoke wool coats, custom leather shoes, and the unmistakable aura of men who owned entire city blocks.
Vince closed the front door behind us with a soft, final click.
“Are you Marcus Vance?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm as I stepped into the center of the dingy living room.
“Yeah. Who’s asking?” He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough, though his hands were visibly shaking. “If this is about my sister’s diner tab or some crap, she don't have—”
I didn't let him finish. I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed him by the collar of his filthy sweatshirt, and slammed him back against the wood-paneled wall so hard the framed pictures rattled.
Marcus let out a choked gasp, his beer bottle shattering against the floorboards. “Hey! What are you doing? I’ll call the cops!”
“Go ahead,” I whispered, my face inches from his. My right hand, usually plagued by its restless tremor, remained completely still, locked around his collar with cold, absolute fury. “Tell the police that a billionaire who owns half the state just pinned you to your wall. See how fast they answer.”
“You’re… you’re crazy,” Marcus choked out, his heels lifting off the floor.
“Listen to me very carefully, Marcus,” I said, every word dripping with lethal ice. “Your sister has spent her entire life sacrificing her education, her youth, and her sanity to keep your mother alive while you drink away disability checks and break her bones. That ends tonight.”
“I didn't touch her—!”
“If I ever hear, see, or receive a single report of you laying a finger on Elena Vance again,” I interrupted, tightening my grip until his face turned a mottled shade of purple, “I won't just break your hands so you can never hold a bottle again. I will strip you of every legal right, every cent, and every shelter you have in this city. You will wake up homeless on a park bench before sunrise. Do I make myself clear?”
Marcus nodded frantically, tears springing to his eyes, gasping for air. “Crystal clear! Crystal clear, I swear to God!”
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I shoved him back, sending him crashing over the coffee table into a heap of old newspapers and empty cans. I wiped my hands clean with a handkerchief, dropping it onto the floor beside him.
“Vince,” I said, turning toward the door. “Let’s go home.”
