Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
At two o'clock in the morning, the house was entirely dark.
Vincent sat in his leather armchair in the corner of the twins' room, illuminated only by the faint green light of the heart monitors that remained attached to Noah and Lily's fingers.
The kids were sleeping deeply, their breathing synchronized and calm.
On the small table between the beds lay two wooden raccoon figures, painted with watercolors that had dried into soft shades of grey and black.
Vincent reached out, picking up the small wooden toy. The edges were rough, carved with a simple pocket knife, but the likeness was unmistakable. He held it in his palm, feeling the lightness of the pine wood.
Suddenly, a faint sound echoed from down the hall.
It was not the sound of the house settling in the wind. It was the sharp, metallic clink of a latch being lifted on the service staircase at the end of the west wing—a staircase that led straight down to the rear gardens.
Vincent’s instincts, honed by twenty years of survival in a world of wolves, ignited instantly.
He set the wooden toy down without making a sound. His right hand reached inside his coat, his fingers wrapping around the cold, familiar grip of his customized Kimber .45 pistol. He slipped out of the room, leaving the door open a mere crack, and moved down the dark carpeted hallway like a shadow.
The door to the service stairwell was slightly ajar. A cool draft of wet night air blew through the gap.
Vincent eased up to the frame, raising his weapon, his finger resting lightly against the trigger guard.
He stepped into the stairwell.
Standing three steps down, illuminated by the yellow security light from the courtyard outside, was Grace.
She was wearing a faded wool coat over her maid's uniform, her back turned to him. She was holding a small, silver flip-phone to her ear, her voice barely a whisper against the sound of the rain against the glass.
"I can't talk right now," Grace was saying, her tone frantic. "I told you, I'm working. I'll have the money by the end of the week."
Vincent didn't move. He stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs, his gun remaining lowered, his eyes fixed on the back of her head.
A harsh, metallic voice crackled through the small speaker of her phone. "The end of the week isn't good enough, Grace. The interest doubled yesterday. Mr. Vane wants to know if you're taking this seriously."
Grace pulled her coat tighter around her throat, her head dropping. "I'm working in a private house. The pay is good. Just give me three more days. Please. If you come here, if you make a scene—"
"If we come there, we talk to your boss," the voice cut in maliciously. "We hear he’s got deep pockets. Maybe he’d like to settle your late husband’s business."
"No!" Grace said, her voice rising in a sharp, desperate panic. "No! Leave him out of this! He has nothing to do with it! I will bring the cash to the diner on 22nd Street on Friday night. I swear it."
Silence stretched over the line for a moment.
"Midnight Friday, Grace. If you're five minutes late, we visit the house."
The line went dead.
Grace lowered the phone, her forehead resting against the cold brick wall of the stairwell. Her shoulders began to shake silently as she wept—a quiet, hopeless weeping that she kept smothered behind her trembling hand.
At the top of the stairs, Vincent slowly engaged the safety on his pistol and holstered it beneath his coat.
He stepped back into the dark hallway, his mind racing.
Vane.
There was only one man on the South Side who went by the name Vane. Arthur Vane—a slimy, small-time loan shark who ran a predatory lending racket out of a pawn shop in Pilsen, preying on working-class families, widows, and desperate gamblers.
Vincent walked down the hall toward his private study, his face darkening with a terrible, focused rage.
He opened the door, walked to his desk, and picked up his encrypted satellite phone. He dialed a four-digit extension.
Mason answered on the second ring, his voice crisp despite the hour. "Boss?"
"Mason," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a whisper that sounded like grinding stones. "Where does Arthur Vane operate from these days?"
"Pilsen. The gold and loan shop on Cermak Road," Mason replied instantly. "Why? Did Vane step out of line?"
Vincent looked at the framed photograph of his late wife on his desk, then thought of the woman who had brought his children back from the edge of the grave with a wooden spoon and a story about a raccoon.
"Vane has something that belongs to an employee of mine," Vincent said. "Get the car ready. We’re taking a drive."
"Now, boss?" Mason asked, surprised. "It's two in the morning."
"Now," Vincent commanded. "And Mason?"
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"Sir?"
"Bring the heavy tools."
