Chapter 6 - The Transfer of the Deed
The next morning, the sun rose over a frozen city, the sky a brilliant, clinical blue that made the glass towers of the Loop look like shards of ice rising from the lake.
I stood in the office of Gregory Vance on the third floor of a commercial building on LaSalle Street. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, old leather, and the distinct, sour aroma of a man who spent his life squeezing the margins out of people who had no other choice.
Gregory Vance—a heavy-set man of fifty with a gold pinky ring and a threadbare gray suit—was sitting behind his desk, his face a mixture of confusion and absolute terror.
Robert Chen sat in the leather chair beside him, his briefcase open, a single blue-bound document resting on the polished wood between them.
"This is highly irregular, Mr. Vance," Gregory said, his fingers twitching against his coffee mug. "I’ve managed these buildings for fifteen years. I have a standard eviction protocol. The tenant was three weeks behind on the payment. The law allows me to—"
"The law doesn't allow you to throw a five-year-old child's personal belongings into a freezing hallway while her mother is unconscious in an ICU, Gregory," Robert said, his voice level and cold. "And the building department has just issued sixteen structural citations against your Damen property, including an immediate vacate order for the furnace room due to a carbon monoxide hazard. Your operating license is currently being reviewed by the state attorney’s office."
"This is harassment!" Gregory shouted, standing up, his face turning an ugly, mottled red. "You can't do this! I have contacts in the ward office!"
"Your contacts are currently reviewing their own campaign accounts to see how quickly they can return your contributions, Greg," I said, stepping forward from the window. I hadn't slept. I was still wearing the same clothes from the day before, my jaw shadow-darkened, my eyes bloodshot. "The purchase agreement is on the table. You will sign the transfer of the Damen building deed to the Salazar-Vance Foundation for the sum of one dollar."
"One dollar? That building is worth two hundred and eighty thousand!"
"It’s worth nothing if the city condemns it by noon," Robert noted, sliding a gold pen across the desk. "And if you don't sign, Mr. Vance has instructed our litigation team to file a personal civil suit against you for child endangerment, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and conversion of personal property. The legal fees alone will liquidate your other eleven properties before the spring."
Gregory looked at the pen, then at the blue document, and finally up at me. He saw what my board members had seen for a decade—a man who had systematically eliminated every competitor who stood in his path, a man who didn't know how to stop until there was nothing left to fight.
With a trembling hand, Gregory picked up the pen and scribbled his signature across the bottom of the page.
"Get out of my building," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper.
He didn't say a word. He grabbed his coat from the hanger behind the door and practically ran out of the office, his leather shoes squeaking frantically against the tile.
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"What do we do with the building now, Julian?" Robert asked, closing his briefcase.
"Renovate it," I said, looking out the window at the frozen street below. "Fix the heating. Replace the windows. Clean the hallways. And make sure Mrs. Higgins has the title to her apartment for the rest of her life, rent-free."
