Chapter 2 - The Red Ledger
At 7:59 PM, my cheap prepaid phone vibrated against the cracked formica table in my studio apartment.
I swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm canned soup and swiped the screen. "Hello?"
"Mia Chen?" The voice was gravelly, thick with a South Chicago accent, and entirely unhurried. "This is Franco Valenti. Security for the Marchetti organization."
I gripped the edge of the table. "Yes, Mr. Valenti."
"Your father was David Chen. Master carpenter. Died five years ago of stage four pancreatic cancer at Northwestern Memorial. You sold his workshop in Bridgeport to cover the ICU bills, dropped out of DePaul University where you were majoring in Art History, and took a job at Rosetti's three days later. You owe eleven thousand, four hundred dollars in lingering medical debt to a collections agency called Apex Financial."
My throat went bone dry. "Is that... is that legal? How do you have those records?"
"In our line of work, 'legal' is a word people use when they lack resources," Valenti replied calmly. "You have no criminal record. No boyfriend. No close relatives left in the state. You live alone, you pay your rent four days early every month, and you tip your building superintendent twenty dollars every Christmas even though he never fixes your radiator."
I sat in stunned silence. I felt stripped naked, exposed down to the precise penny of my financial desperation.
"Why are you telling me all this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"Because Boss wanted to know if you were a plant from the Moretti syndicate or the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Valenti explained. "You're neither. You're just an overworked girl trying to keep her head above water. Which makes you either very safe... or very easy to buy."
"I am not for sale, Mr. Valenti," I snapped, a sudden burst of anger burning through my shock. "I agreed to walk Sophia home because she was an eight-year-old child alone in an alley at midnight. I agreed to teach her because she wants to make her father a birthday present. I don't care about your mafia politics, your rivalries, or your money."
There was a long pause on the line. Then, a low, rasping chuckle echoed through the speaker.
"Boss was right," Valenti muttered, sounding almost amused. "You've got teeth under that waitress uniform. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock sharp. Use the side entrance on East Elm Street. Don't use the front gate. And wear comfortable shoes, Miss Chen. You're going to be standing a lot."
The call disconnected before I could answer.
The next morning, the winter sky over Chicago was the color of bruised slate. Snow was predicted by afternoon, but I bundled myself into my faded coat and walked the eight blocks from the bus stop to the Marchetti brownstone.
Instead of the grand wrought-iron front gate, I followed Valenti’s instructions and approached the side entrance on East Elm—a heavy steel door set into a high brick wall covered in dormant ivy. Beside the door stood a broad-shouldered man in a black trench coat, his hands gloved, his posture relaxed yet vigilant.
"Miss Chen," he nodded, tapping a security pad. The steel door unlatched with a loud, hydraulic hum. "I'm Franco."
He was in his late fifties, with graying hair slicked back, a scarred jawline, and eyes that held the tired wisdom of a man who had seen too many bodies buried in the Indiana dunes.
"Mr. Valenti," I acknowledged, stepping into a paved courtyard surrounded by high walls.
"Call me Franco," he said, walking me toward the kitchen entrance. "A word of advice before you go in there, kid. Alaric Marchetti isn't just a businessman. He's the Don of the outfit since his father took a bullet three years ago. The pressure he's under right now... it would crack a lesser man in half. The Morettis are pushing on the docks, the feds are bugging the club in River North, and he's trying to raise a blind daughter who thinks she's invincible."
May you like
"She isn't helpless, Franco," I said firmly.
"No, she ain't," Franco agreed softly, stopping at the kitchen door. "But she's his heart. And a man in his position can't afford to have his heart beating outside his chest. Remember that when he gets harsh. It ain't about you. It's about keeping her alive."
