Chapter 3 - A Dossier of Grief
The meal lasted over an hour. For the first time in two years, Grace Carter ate until she was full. She watched Noah laugh as he ate three different types of gourmet ice cream, his eyes sparkling with a joy that poverty had stolen from him long ago.
When they finally left the restaurant, Grace tried to leave her remaining forty dollars as a tip, but Daniel firmly refused it, telling her that service fees were automatically covered by the hotel's celebration fund.
She walked out into the crisp Boston air holding Noah’s hand, feeling warmer than she had in years.
Meanwhile, upstairs in the top-floor executive suite of the Moretti Grand, Vincent sat behind a massive mahogany desk. Rain had begun to mix with the winter snow outside, streaking the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline.
Marco walked in, placing a thin manila folder on the polished wood.
"Her name is Grace Evelyn Carter, age thirty-two," Marco began, his tone neutral and efficient. "Her husband was Thomas Carter. He was aunion carpenter. Good man, no record. Two years ago, a structural failure on a non-union job site in East Boston killed him instantly."
Vincent’s eyes darkened. "Was there a settlement?"
"That's where it gets dirty," Marco said, grimacing. "The contractor, Apex Construction, was running a shell company setup. They filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy three weeks after the accident to shield themselves from liability. Their insurance company offered Grace a quick settlement of twenty thousand dollars. She spent every penny of it paying off Thomas’s medical bills from the ER and funeral costs."
Vincent opened the folder. He scanned the legal documents, his jaw clenching. "And the bakery?"
"Heavenly Crust Bakery on 4th Street," Marco replied. "She and Thomas bought it four years ago. They had a small mortgage on the building through Boston Merchants Bank. After Thomas died, Grace tried to run it alone while raising Noah. She worked eighteen-hour days, Boss. But between the supply chain spikes and her mortgage payments, she couldn't keep up."
"Who owns the debt now?" Vincent asked.
"Boston Merchants sold the defaulted paper six months ago to a private equity firm called Vantage Holdings," Marco said. "Vantage foreclosed on the bakery. They bought it at auction for pennies on the dollar and put it on the market. They also slapped her with a deficiency judgment for the remaining balance of seventy-five thousand dollars."
Vincent leaned forward, his hands clasped under his chin. "Who owns Vantage Holdings?"
Marco hesitated. "Richard Vance."
Vincent’s eyes snapped to Marco.
Richard Vance was one of Boston’s slimiest corporate predators. He made his millions by buying up distressed properties from widows, bankrupt families, and struggling small business owners, kicking them out, and turning the lots into luxury condos. He was a man who legally robbed people who had no power to fight back.
"Go on," Vincent said softly. The low, rumbling quiet in his voice was a tone Marco had learned to fear years ago.
"Grace lost the bakery three months ago," Marco continued. "She moved into a single-room apartment above a laundromat on Bennington Street. She works two cleaning shifts—one at a downtown office building from 4:00 AM to 9:00 AM, and another cleaning residential homes in the afternoon. She makes barely enough to pay the four hundred dollars a week rent and buy Noah’s inhalers."
"His inhalers?"
"Noah has severe asthma," Marco said, pulling out a medical record sheet. "His medication costs three hundred dollars a month out of pocket because Grace doesn't have health insurance. Last week, Vantage Holdings served her with an eviction warning on behalf of her landlord, who happens to be one of Vance’s subsidiaries. She’s three weeks behind on rent. They’re putting her on the street next Friday."
Silence filled the office. The only sound was the wind howling against the glass.
Vincent stared at the photograph attached to the paper. It was a family photo taken three years ago: Thomas, Grace, and a laughing little Noah standing in front of a small bakery with flour-dusted aprons. Grace was smiling—a bright, beautiful smile that looked completely different from the tired, hollow-eyed expression he had seen downstairs.
Vincent closed the folder.
"Where is Vance right now?" Vincent asked.
"He’s hosting a private poker game tonight at his penthouse in the Seaport District," Marco answered. "Some city council members, a couple of developers."
Vincent stood up. He walked to the window, looking down at the frozen streets of the city he controlled.
For twelve years, Vincent had worked to leave his past behind. He had buried the violence, the threats, and the dark methods of the Moretti crime syndicate to build a clean empire. He believed in the law now. He believed in contracts and legitimate business.
But as he thought about a widow starving herself so her sick son could eat a piece of birthday steak, while Richard Vance sat in a penthouse built on stolen homes, Vincent felt the old blood stir in his veins.
"Marco," Vincent said quietly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call my attorney, Harrison. Tell him to prep a debt purchase agreement for Vantage Holdings."
"Vance won't sell, Boss. He’s planning to demolish that entire block on 4th Street to build high-rise apartments. The bakery is the anchor parcel."
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Vincent turned around. The warmth he had shown in the restaurant was gone, replaced by the lethal, cold authority that had made him the most feared man in New England.
"He will sell," Vincent said. "Get the car."
