Chapter 2 - The Landlord’s Worst Nightmare
The morning sun barely cut through the gray smog of South Boston when the sound of violent banging rattled the thin wooden door of my apartment.
I bolted upright on the sagging pull-out couch in our living room. It was 7:15 a.m. Chloe was still asleep in the small adjoining bedroom, wrapped in her favorite faded unicorn blanket.
"Hayes! Open the damn door!"
The harsh, grating voice belonged to Martin Vance. Vance was a slumlord who owned six decaying tenement buildings on our block. He was a bloated, red-faced man in his late fifties who spent his days sweating through cheap polo shirts and finding creative ways to evict low-income families so he could flip the units for higher payouts.
I scrambled out of bed, pulled on a worn gray cardigan, and hurried to the door, keeping the metal security chain firmly engaged as I cracked it open two inches.
"Mr. Vance," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "Chloe is sleeping. Please don't pound on the door like that."
Vance glared at me through the gap, his eyes small and mean. "I don't care if she's sleeping. It's the first of the month. Did you get my notice?"
"Yes, I did," I replied, my chest tightening. "Three thousand dollars is impossible. The lease I signed says eight hundred and fifty. You can't raise it by more than two hundred percent with three days' notice. It's illegal."
Vance let out a wet, mocking bark of laughter. "Illegal? Look at your contract, sweetie. You’re on a month-to-month holdover since June. I can set the rate at whatever I want. You pay three grand by noon today, or your junk is on the sidewalk by five o'clock. I've got three college kids ready to move in tonight with cash in hand."
"Please," I pleaded, swallowing my pride as despair threatened to overwhelm me. "Give me two weeks. I'll pick up extra shifts. I can borrow from my boss. Chloe has an appointment at the clinic next Tuesday for her breathing—"
"Not my problem," Vance snapped, slamming his palm against the doorframe. "Money by noon, or get the hell out."
"She said no."
A third voice cut through the dingy hallway like an executioner’s blade.
Vance turned around aggressively. "Who the hell are—"
The words died in his throat.
Standing in the narrow, peeling corridor of our rundown apartment building were four men in dark tailored overcoats. At the center stood Dominic Salvatore. In the daylight, he looked even more imposing. His sharp jaw was cleanly shaved, his black hair combed back perfectly, and his dark eyes were fixed on Vance with the cold indifference one might reserve for an insect on a shoe.
Vance’s face transformed instantly from arrogant bully to pale, trembling prey. He lived in this neighborhood; he knew exactly whose territory he was standing in.
"M-Mr. Salvatore," Vance stammered, his knees visibly shaking as he backed up against the wall. "Sir... I didn't know... I mean, I was just handling tenant business..."
Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look angry. He simply walked forward, and the hallway seemed to contract around him. Vance instinctively pressed himself as flat against the peeling wallpaper as humanly possible.
"Martin Vance," Dominic said smoothly, stopping three feet away. "You own this property through an offshore shell company called Harbor Vista LLC. You have forty-two active building code violations on this property alone, including non-functional fire escapes, black mold in the ventilation system, and faulty wiring that could ignite at any second."
Vance swallowed dryly, sweat beading rapidly across his bald forehead. "We're... we're working on repairs, Mr. Salvatore. Immediately. Today."
"No," Dominic said, tilting his head slightly. "You aren't."
Dominic’s right-hand enforcer, a hulking man with a scar running across his temple whom I later learned was named Matteo, stepped forward and handed Dominic a sleek leather folder.
Dominic opened it with one hand. "As of eight minutes ago, Harbor Vista LLC and all twelve of its associated residential properties were purchased by Salvatore Holdings."
Vance’s eyes bulged. "What? That's impossible! I didn't sign anything!"
"Your primary creditor, the Bank of New England, held six million dollars of your defaulted commercial debt," Dominic explained calmly, turning a page. "I bought the debt. Then I executed the foreclosure clauses. You no longer own this building, Mr. Vance. You no longer own any building in this state."
Vance looked like he was about to vomit. "You... you ruined me. Over an eight-hundred-dollar apartment?"
Dominic closed the folder with a soft, authoritative snap and looked directly into Vance's terrified eyes.
"You spoke disrespectfully to a woman who saved my life," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of icy finality. "You threatened her child. Consider yourself fortunate that losing your real estate portfolio is the only consequence you suffer today."
Dominic gave a tiny nod to Matteo.
Matteo grabbed Vance by the scruff of his polo shirt with one massive hand and began dragging him down the hallway toward the stairs like a sack of laundry. Vance didn't dare scream; he just let out pathetic whimpering sounds until the heavy fire door slammed shut behind them.
Silence descended upon the narrow hallway.
I stood behind my cracked door, my heart hammering against my ribs, the brass security chain still rattling between us.
May you like
Dominic turned his gaze toward me. The predatory frost in his eyes melted slightly, replaced by that same intense, unreadable curiosity from the diner.
"Good morning, Emma," he said politely. "You may unchain the door now."
