Chapter 4 - The South Side Audit
By noon, the rain had stopped, leaving the city under a thick, gray blanket of lake fog. Marco sat in the back of his armored Escalade as it moved through the industrial corridors of the South Side, two identical vehicles tracking its bumper.
Caruso sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. "Boss, the councilman from the 4th district called three times. He says Vasquez is trying to clear the shipping permits for the river dock. If they get those permits, they can bring their own weight in from the coast without using our lines."
"The councilman can wait," Marco said, his eyes fixed on a small, yellowed index card he had taken from Lena’s drawer in the penthouse. It had the address of the St. Jude Residential Care Facility written in her neat, rounded script.
The Escalade pulled up to a low-slung, red-brick building with peeling paint and iron bars over the windows. It looked less like a hospital and more like a storage locker for people the city had forgotten.
Marco stepped out, his long black coat caught by the damp wind. Caruso and three other men stepped out with him, their hands instinctively resting inside their jackets.
"Stay here," Marco ordered, walking through the glass doors alone.
The smell inside was instant—cheap bleach, overcooked cabbage, and the low, heavy hum of old television sets. A nurse at the front desk, an older Black woman with a name tag that read Nurse Clara, didn't look up from her paperwork until Marco’s large shadow fell across her desk.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone flat with the exhaustion of a twelve-hour shift.
"Danny Carter," Marco said. "I’m here to see him."
Clara’s eyes flicked to Marco’s tailored coat, then to his hands, then to the heavy gold watch on his wrist. Her expression turned from bored to defensive in a second. "Are you a social worker? Because if you’re from the collection agency again, I already told Lena we can't accept partial payments this month. The state subsidy was cut."
Marco’s chest felt tight, as if the five bullets Lena had taken were slowly expanding inside his own lungs. "I’m not from an agency. I’m her... employer."
Clara’s posture softened slightly, but her eyes remained sharp. "Her employer? She works twenty hours a day for that old lady up north. She hasn't missed a payment for Danny since she started, even if she has to come here in the middle of the night to bring the cash herself. Where is she? She was supposed to bring his new braces yesterday."
"She was injured," Marco said, the words tasting like copper. "An accident at the house. She won't be coming for a while."
Clara stared at him, her lips leaning into a thin line. "An accident. With people who look like you. I told her that job was too strange. I told her those old money houses always have dirt under the rugs."
"Danny," Marco repeated, his voice dropping into a tone that didn't allow for argument. "Where is he?"
She led him down a narrow, yellowing hallway to a room at the far end. Inside, a boy of about nineteen sat in a wheelchair, his legs fitted with heavy, outdated steel braces, his face thin but remarkably clear as he stared out at the gravel parking lot. He had Lena’s eyes—the same deep, quiet brown that didn't flinch when the world got dark.
"Danny," Clara said gently. "Someone’s here from your sister's work."
The boy turned the wheels of his chair, his face instantly lighting up. "Lena? Did she find the blue notebooks?"
He stopped when he saw Marco. The smile vanished, replaced by the instant, defensive caution of a kid who had grown up on the concrete of the city’s margins. "You're not the driver."
Marco walked into the small room, his presence making the ceiling feel lower. He didn't offer his hand; he knew what his hand smelled like to innocent people. "No. I'm Marco Duca. Your sister works for my mother."
Danny looked at Marco’s coat, then at his face. "She’s hurt, isn't she?"
Marco paused. "Yes."
"Is she going to die?"
"No," Marco said, and for the first time in his life, he was making a promise he knew he would destroy the city to keep. "She is not going to die. I have the best doctors in the state with her."
Danny looked down at his own lap, his thin fingers twisting the fabric of his sweatpants. "She told me your mother was nice. She said the house was warm. She said she liked the library because it smelled like old paper."
Marco took a deep breath, reaching into his coat and pulling out a heavy, black leather checkbook. He didn't use a pen; he simply slid a pre-signed, blank corporate check onto the small nightstand beside the bed.
"This facility is finished for you, Danny," Marco said. "Caruso will be here at four o'clock with a medical transport. You’re moving to the Vance Clinic in Lake Forest. It’s six minutes from where your sister is resting. They have a pool. They have therapists who don't look at a clock."
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Danny didn't touch the check. "Why are you doing this? Lena says no one gives you anything in this city unless they want your soul."
"Your sister already gave me her blood, Danny," Marco said, turning toward the door, his coat billowing behind him like a crow's wings. "Your soul isn't worth enough to match that."
