Chapter 5 - The Ledger of the Underworld
By eight o’clock that evening, I was back in the warm, mahogany-paneled sanctuary of my private study.
The storm outside had intensified, turning the Chicago night into a howling whiteout of swirling snow and freezing wind against the reinforced glass. Inside, a roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the rows of leather-bound first editions and ancient art pieces I had acquired over two decades of climbing to the top of the city’s food chain.
Vance stood across from my desk, holding a slim manila folder containing the harvested data.
“You were right, boss,” Vance said, tossing the folder onto the blotter. “It wasn't random budget cuts. The pharmaceutical firm backing St. Jude’s pediatric trial—Vanguard Biomed—is controlled by a holding company tied to the Moretti family out of New York.”
My eyes narrowed sharply, the firelight catching the cold glint in my irises.
“The Morettis,” I repeated softly. “Are you certain?”
“Positive,” Vance confirmed, crossing his arms. “They’ve been quietly buying up medical and real estate shell corporations across the Midwest to launder cash and exert leverage over local institutions. One of their board members, a prick named Dr. Harrison Vance—no relation to me, thank God—deliberately redirected grant funds away from St. Jude’s to squeeze public health contracts in wards where our syndicates overlap. They cut funding to minor trials like the leukemia protocol to free up capital for commercial real estate acquisitions.”
I tapped my signet ring rhythmically against the edge of the desk.
So the Morettis were playing corporate games in my backyard, starving children of experimental medicine just to pad their portfolio and buy up real estate blocks in the South Side.
“Dr. Harrison Vance,” I murmured, tasting the name like poison on my tongue. “Where is he tonight?”
“He’s hosting a private charity gala at the Drake Hotel on Magnificent Mile,” Vance replied, a grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Black tie, high society, rubbing shoulders with city councilmen and pharmaceutical executives.”
I stood up slowly, smoothing the lapels of my tailored charcoal suit.
“Get the cars ready, Vance,” I said quietly. “We’re going to a party.”
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“Should we bring the enforcement team?”
“No,” I replied, reaching into my desk drawer and sliding a heavy, silver-plated cigarette case and a golden Montblanc pen into my inner pocket. “This isn’t a war zone. This is a business negotiation. And Dr. Harrison Vance is about to learn a very expensive lesson in corporate philanthropy.”
