Chapter 7 - THE DEBT COLLECTOR'S FINAL WARNING
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Morning arrived without sunlight, choked out by heavy storm clouds rolling off the frozen lake.
Down in the bunker, the world operated on electric light and adrenaline. Tailors from an exclusive boutique on Michigan Avenue arrived under heavy armed escort at eleven o'clock, carrying garment bags full of tailored wool, silk ties, and evening dresses.
They measured me in my chair without making a single comment about my condition—Luke had made it abundantly clear that any disrespectful look or condescending sigh would result in their business licenses vanishing overnight.
Then they turned their attention to Emma.
She stood in front of the full-length mirrors in the bunker's private dressing suite, looking bewildered as three seamstresses fussed over her. They brought out an emerald-green silk evening gown—floor-length, cut with an elegant backless drape, featuring subtle diamond accents along the straps that caught the light like drops of water.
When she walked back into the central command room, the room went dead silent.
The two armed guards standing at the door lowered their chins in stunned admiration. Luke let out a soft whistle through his teeth.
Emma walked with an instinctive, quiet elegance that no amount of money could buy. The dark green silk contrasted brilliantly with her pale porcelain skin, her brown hair swept up into an intricate, loose chignon that exposed the slender line of her neck and shoulders. The exhaustion that had weighed her down for years seemed to have burned away, replaced by an aura of poised, dangerous beauty.
She caught me staring, and for the first time all day, a light flush of pink touched her cheeks.
"Does it... look ridiculous?" she asked, smoothing her hands self-consciously over the emerald fabric. "I've never worn anything that didn't have a name tag pinned to it."
I rolled my chair forward until I was stopped inches from where she stood.
"You look," I murmured, my voice dropping to a register that made her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, "like an empress."
Her smile was tentative, but it reached her eyes. "You don't look so bad yourself, Mr. Vance."
I was dressed in a bespoke charcoal-gray tuxedo made from heavy Italian wool, tailored specifically to fall perfectly while seated. My cufflinks were white gold set with black onyx, and my watch was an antique Patek Philippe that had belonged to my father. For the first time in two years, when I looked in the glass, I didn't see an invalid hiding in a tomb. I saw Daniel Vance.
"We have one problem before we leave," Luke interrupted, stepping out of the surveillance alcove with a dark scowl.
"What is it?" I asked, not taking my eyes off Emma.
"A loan shark named Jimmy 'The Hook' Fallon," Luke said, reading from an encrypted phone. "He ran the high-interest debts Emma's late father racked up before he died five years ago. It turns out Emma's father borrowed eighty thousand dollars from Fallon's crew to pay for illegal gambling debts."
Emma went completely rigid. All the color drained from her face.
"My father is dead," she whispered, her hands balling into fists against the silk of her dress. "He's been dead for half a decade. That debt was cleared through probate court!"
"Not in the underworld it isn't," Luke said grimly. "Probate means nothing to guys like Fallon. He's been skimming Emma's diner paychecks under the table for eighteen months, threatening to burn down St. Jude's if she missed a weekly vig. Half an hour ago, Fallon's muscle showed up at the diner looking for her. When they found out she quit, they paid a visit to the nursing home."
Emma let out a strangled gasp, stumbling forward. "My mother! Did they hurt her? Did they touch her?"
"Security at St. Jude's turned them away at the gate," Luke reassured her quickly. "Your mother is safe, Emma. We have four armed guards on the grounds now. But Fallon left a message. He said if he doesn't receive two hundred thousand dollars in cash by six o'clock tonight, he's going to use a molotov on her mother's care wing, guards or no guards."
Emma began to hyperventilate. The poise and elegance shattered in an instant, the old nightmare of poverty and violence clawing its way back to the surface. She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails biting deep into the fine wool of my tuxedo.
"Daniel, please," she begged, tears spilling over her lashes and threatening to ruin her makeup. "Please, they'll kill her! You don't know Fallon. He's an animal. He burns people's houses down for pocket change! Take the dress back, take everything—just protect her!"
I reached up with both hands, cupping her face, forcing her to look down into my eyes.
"Emma, look at me," I commanded, my voice cold and calm as glacial ice. "Look at my eyes."
She stopped shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her tear-stained brown eyes locking onto mine.
"Nobody touches your mother," I said, each syllable ringing with the absolute certainty of an executioner. "Nobody threatens anything that belongs under my protection. Fallon just made the single biggest mistake of his miserable life."
I turned my head toward Luke.
"Where does Fallon run his bookmaking operation on Sunday afternoons?" I asked.
"A chop shop and illegal betting parlor off Archer Avenue," Luke replied without hesitation. "Near the rail yards."
"Reroute the convoy," I commanded. "We have a stop to make before the Grand Regal."
"Danny," Luke warned, his eyebrows raising. "The syndicate dinner starts at eight. If we're late—"
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"They can wait," I snapped, spinning my chair toward the elevator with lethal efficiency. "Let's remind this city how Daniel Vance settles a debt."
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