Chapter 5 - The Councilman’s Ledger"Oh, come now, Damen," Arthur Vance said, stepping closer with a sickeningly casual swagger. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets, his gaze sliding over Damen's shoulder to assess Hannah like a piece of livestock on an auction block. "We all remember Sophia. Sweet girl. Terrible taste in late-night company. If she had stayed out of the financial district after dark, that brake line would never have snapped."
Hannah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Brake line? The news reports had said a wet curve.
Damen didn't yell. He didn't lunge. He simply took one step forward—a movement so fast and precise that Vance instinctively took a half-step back, his smug smile faltering.
"The police report said an accident," Damen said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"And who writes the police reports in the Fourth Ward, my boy?" Vance chuckled, though the sound was tight and nervous. "Your father owned the docks, Damen, but I own the judges. I own the traffic boards. I own the men who sign off on municipal scrap metal." Vance leaned in, lowering his voice. "And if you think you can disrupt my hospital board appointments by moving a few indigent patients into Saint Jude, I'll have the health board condemn this entire building before dinner."
Damen looked down at Vance with a gaze so devoid of human warmth it made the councilman swallow hard.
"You think this is about hospital boards, Arthur?" Damen asked softly.
"What else could it be?" Vance scoffed, trying to regain his composure. "Some emotional rescue mission for a bruised nurse? Please. You're a Moretti. You don't save people; you collect debts."
"You're right about one thing," Damen said. He raised his right hand, the heavy gold signet ring catching the fluorescent hospital lights. "I do collect debts."
Before Vance could react, Marco Bell stepped forward from the elevator doors, carrying a heavy leather briefcase. He didn't open it. He simply dropped it onto the pristine white floor at Vance’s feet with a dull, heavy thud.
"What is that?" Vance demanded, eyeing the case suspiciously.
"That," Marco said, his voice flat, "is every financial wire transfer from Vance Maritime Logistics to the scrap yard in Cicero where Sophia Moretti’s car was towed nine years ago. Complete with signed delivery receipts from your nephew."
Vance’s face lost every trace of color. The smug arrogance vanished in a microsecond, replaced by the panicked realization of a cornered predator.
"You're bluffing," Vance spat, though his voice cracked on the final syllable.
"Check your phone, Arthur," Damen said, his tone icy. "Your chief of staff has been trying to reach you for the last three minutes. The federal prosecutor's office just executed a search warrant on your campaign headquarters."
Vance's phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket. He pulled it out with trembling fingers, stared at the glowing screen for one horrified second, and then looked up at Damen with naked terror.
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"You can't do this," Vance whispered. "You'll bring down half the city council with me."
"Then it's a good thing," Damen said, taking another step forward until he was towering over the politician, "I've always been good at remodeling."
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