Chapter 4 - The Debt Collector
At 11:00 AM sharp, the elevator doors chimed open.
Three men stepped into the foyer. The man in the middle was short, thick-necked, and wore a leather jacket that strained against his broad belly. Anthony Varga looked like a street enforcer who had tried—and failed—to buy class. His rings were too large, his cologne was too sharp, and his eyes swept over the luxurious penthouse with pure, unadulterated greed.
Behind him stood two heavy-set men with broken noses and arms like tree trunks.
Julian was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair in the center of the living room, a crystal glass of sparkling water on the table beside him. Derek stood behind the chair, his hands clasped neutrally in front of him.
"Nice place," Varga sneered, stepping onto the polished floor. "Holding company said someone wanted to clear up the Maya Torres account. I didn't realize I was meeting the governor."
"Sit down, Varga," Julian said. He didn't rise. He didn't offer a hand. He merely gestured to the sofa opposite him.
Varga’s smile flickered, a trace of annoyance crossing his face, but he sat down, crossing one heavy leg over the other. "Look, pal, I don't know who you are to the girl. Sugar daddy, uncle, whatever. The balance on her account is seventy-six thousand dollars as of nine this morning. Cash or cashier's check. You pay it, she walks away clean."
Julian reached onto the side table and picked up a manila folder. He opened it, casually turning a page.
"Maya Torres borrowed forty-five thousand dollars eighteen months ago," Julian said softly. "She has paid back twenty-eight thousand in cash micro-payments over the last year. By legal interest limits in the state of Illinois, her remaining principal balance is less than seventeen thousand dollars."
Varga chuckled, a raspy, ugly sound. "Legal limits? Pal, she signed a contract with Apex. We ain't a bank. We charge street rates for street risk."
"You aren't street, Anthony," Julian said, looking up from the folder, his eyes fixing on Varga with the cold precision of a sniper locking onto a target. "You report to Sal Moretti. And Sal reports to me."
The room went dead, terrifyingly silent.
Varga’s chuckle died in his throat. He sat up straighter, his dark eyes squinting at Julian, trying to place the face. "Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Julian Croft," he said plainly.
Varga’s face drained of color so quickly it was as if someone had pulled a plug at his feet. The two men behind him visibly shifted, their hands immediately coming out of their pockets to hang limply at their sides.
In the Chicago underworld, the name Croft wasn't spoken casually. Julian Croft was the man who had consolidated the shipping docks, the unions, and the high-end financial laundering networks across three states. He didn't smash kneecaps in alleys; he erased entire families from bank registries and real estate records with a single phone call.
"Mr... Mr. Croft," Varga stammered, his posture collapsing instantly. "I... I had no idea. The girl... she's just a maid... she never said—"
"She didn't know," Julian cut him off. "Because she is a decent human being who doesn't spend her days wallowing in the mud with scum like you."
Julian stood up. Though he was lean, his height and sheer presence dominated the room. He walked over to the table and tapped the manila folder.
"Inside this file are the bank records for Apex Financial," Julian said. "It detail three years of extortion, tax fraud, and illegal wire transfers to unmonitored offshore accounts in the Bahamas. If I email this file to the federal prosecutor’s office, you and Sal Moretti will spend the rest of your natural lives in a federal penitentiary."
Varga swallowed hard, sweat suddenly glistening on his upper lip. "Mr. Croft, please... we can wipe the debt. Completely. Zero balance. We'll mark it paid in full right now."
"You will mark it paid in full," Julian agreed quietly. "And then you are going to write a check from Apex Financial to Maya Torres for twenty-eight thousand dollars—refunding every single penny she paid you under illegal duress."
Varga blinked, horrified. "Twenty-eight grand? Mr. Croft, I don't have—"
May you like
"You have ten seconds to decide if twenty-eight thousand dollars is worth twenty-five years in Marion Correctional," Julian said, picking up his water glass. "Nine. Eight..."
"Okay! Okay!" Varga reached frantically into his leather jacket, pulling out a checkbook and a pen with trembling hands. "I'll write it! I'll write it now!"
