Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Fed a Stranger
Rocco’s man called himself Vincent, though that was not the name on his driver’s license.
He did not approach me while Josie stood nearby.
That meant my uncle had at least remembered one rule from my father: business did not spill onto uninvolved people unless there was no alternative.
I finished my coffee.
Josie watched Vincent sit in the far booth.
“Friend of yours?” she asked.
“No.”
“Enemy?”
“Family.”
She grimaced. “Worse.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Her eyebrows lifted. “You do know how.”
“How what?”
“Laugh.”
“Rarely.”
“That explains why it sounded rusty.”
She turned away to refill a trucker’s cup.
Vincent waited until she was in the kitchen before crossing to my stool.
“Mr. Ferraro.”
“Gideon.”
“Your uncle wants to see you.”
“He knows where I live.”
“He said tonight.”
“I’m busy.”
Vincent glanced around the half-empty diner. “With soup?”
I looked at him.
He lowered his eyes.
“Tell Rocco I’ll see him tomorrow at ten. My office.”
“He said the family house.”
“My office.”
Vincent left.
Josie returned carrying a rack of clean mugs.
“Definitely family,” she said.
“What gave it away?”
“The way he looked like he wanted to argue but remembered his childhood.”
I stared at her.
She shrugged. “Night shift teaches you things.”
I left before two thirty.
I did not tell her that the house she was about to lose sat on land recently acquired by Lakefront Urban Renewal, a company Preston Hail controlled through two subsidiaries.
I learned that the next morning.
Salian placed the foreclosure file on my desk at Ferraro Tower, a building I had not entered publicly in two years.
Employees went quiet when I crossed the lobby.
Some recognized me immediately.
Others recognized everyone else recognizing me.
By the time the elevator closed, three phones were probably already calling Chicago business reporters.
“Fletcher property,” Salian said. “South May Street. Mortgage sold twice. Servicer changed last year. Current holder is a fund controlled by Lakefront Urban Renewal.”
“Preston.”
“Yes.”
“Coincidence?”
“I stopped believing in those before law school.”
I opened the file.
Josie’s mother had refinanced the house to pay medical bills. After her death, Josie kept making payments, but fees multiplied. Late charges appeared even when receipts showed payment on time.
“Predatory servicing,” I said.
“Likely.”
“Illegal?”
“Possibly. Proving it takes time.”
“She has three weeks.”
Salian watched me. “You could buy the note today.”
“No.”
“You could buy the entire fund.”
“No.”
“You could buy Preston.”
“I don’t want him.”
Salian smiled faintly. “Then what do you want?”
“Evidence.”
I did not want Josie waking up one morning to discover a mysterious benefactor had erased her problems. I knew what that kind of power did to people. It made gratitude feel like debt.
I had spent my entire life watching men use gifts as chains.
I would not do that to her.
At ten, Rocco arrived.
My uncle was sixty-two, broad through the shoulders, silver at the temples, expensive in every visible detail. He walked into my office without knocking and looked around as if he had built the place.
Technically, my father had.
“Two years,” Rocco said. “You disappear into a rented room while I keep this family breathing. Then one judge signs paper and you return like a king.”
“I never asked you to keep anything breathing.”
“You asked me to manage.”
“I asked you not to destroy it.”
His smile hardened. “Same thing.”
I pushed a folder across the desk.
He did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“Payments from Ferraro-controlled shipping companies to consulting firms with no employees.”
“Everyone uses consultants.”
“These consultants share an accountant with three aldermen and a judge.”
Rocco sat down.
“Be careful, nephew.”
“That’s why I made copies.”
His eyes narrowed.
I leaned forward.
“Within one year, every company carrying my father’s name will be clean enough to survive an audit without a phone call to a politician.”
“You think legitimacy protects you?”
“No. I think theft destroys us faster than any rival ever could.”
Rocco’s mouth curled. “Your father said things like that near the end.”
I felt the room grow colder.
“What does that mean?”
“It means idealism makes men predictable.”
“My father was shot because he was betrayed.”
Rocco stood.
“Then perhaps you should ask who benefited from him becoming predictable.”
He walked out.
Salian entered three seconds later from the adjoining conference room.
“You heard?” I asked.
“Every word.”
“Find out what he meant.”
“I already started.”
My phone rang.
Camille.
This time I answered.
“What did you do?” she demanded.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Preston’s River North project lost its freight guarantee. Two investors called my office asking whether Ferraro Capital has resumed acquisitions. People are saying you walked into your old tower this morning and the entire executive floor stood up.”
I looked through the window at the Chicago River.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Tell me it’s not true.”
“Which part?”
A pause.
“You weren’t broke.”
“No.”
The silence on the line was different from the silence in the real estate office.
That silence had been contempt.
This one was fear.
“How much?” she whispered.
“I’m not discussing money with you.”
“Gideon.”
“You asked for a divorce. I signed it.”
“You let me humiliate you.”
“I didn’t let you do anything.”
“You could have told me.”
“I came there carrying the clearance papers.”
She stopped breathing for a second.
I continued quietly.
“You threw the divorce petition before I took them out.”
When she spoke again, the anger was gone.
“What was I supposed to think?”
“That question belongs to you now.”
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I sat alone.
Then Salian’s assistant entered with a message from the diner.
Josie had called my old prepaid number.
The elderly man she had helped the night before had asked for her from the hospital.
May you like
And before he lost consciousness again, he had given the nurse one name to contact.
Ferraro.
