Chapter 3 - The Notice on the Door
Callaway Street was a row of aging, neglected brick apartment buildings in a working-class pocket of the East Village. The masonry was cracked, water leaked from rusted gutters, and fire escapes clung to the facades like rusted skeletons.
As I pulled my SUV up to the curb outside number 742, my eyes locked onto a bright, glaring red document taped across the central glass entryway:
FINAL WRIT OF UNLAWFUL DETAINER & EVICTION.
Standing on the rain-soaked sidewalk beside a pile of plastic storage bins and cardboard boxes was Jenny.
She was kneeling in the cold drizzle, her arms wrapped fiercely around Toby, shielding the little boy from the wind with her own body. Toby was coughing—a dry, hacking, agonizing sound that tore through the damp street.
Standing over them was a man in a cheap, rumpled gray suit holding a heavy aluminum clipboard. Behind him, two burly men in work boots were tossing a child’s wooden toy box onto the wet curb.
"I told you three days ago, Miss Reeves," the man with the clipboard barked, his voice nasal and callous. "The building was purchased by Vanguard Real Estate Holdings. Your lease expired on the first. You’re sixty days behind on the newly adjusted market rate. Take what you can carry and get off the sidewalk before I call the municipal marshals."
Jenny’s face was soaked with a mixture of rain and tears.
"Please, Mr. Henderson!" Jenny sobbed, looking up from the wet pavement. "My son has severe chronic asthma! I just sold my phone to get his prescription! Just give me until tomorrow morning to find a shelter! It’s freezing out here!"
"Not my problem," Henderson scoffed, tapping his pen against his clipboard. "You should have thought about your kid before you fell behind on rent. Move along."
Toby wheezed against Jenny’s chest, his tiny fingers clutching her damp cardigan. "Mommy... my chest hurts... I can't breathe..."
I pushed open the door of my SUV.
The heavy thud of the door closing echoed across the narrow street.
I walked across the wet pavement, my dark tailored wool overcoat cutting through the rain, stepping directly between Henderson and the mother kneeling on the ground.
Henderson turned toward me, his brow furrowing with arrogant irritation.
"Who the hell are you?" Henderson snapped. "This is private property."
I stopped two feet from him, looking down into his eyes with the cold, absolute stillness that had silenced syndicate bosses across the country.
"Marco Vitelli," I said.
May you like
Henderson’s pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the wet concrete.
Every drop of color drained from his face until his skin looked like wet paper.
