Chapter 4 - Blood Money and Old Debts
The tires of Dominic’s black sedan screeched against the wet gravel of the alley behind Dalton’s gym.
The building was a decaying red-brick warehouse from the nineteen-twenties, its windows covered with heavy iron mesh and grime.
Grace threw open the passenger door before the car had fully stopped, rushing toward the rusted metal side entrance.
"Grace, wait," Dominic said, stepping out of the vehicle with calm, deliberate speed.
She did not wait.
She shoved the heavy steel door open with her left shoulder, bursting into the pungent, echoing interior of the gym.
The rhythmic slap of jump ropes on wood, the dull thud of heavy bags being battered, and the smell of old sweat hung thick in the air.
A dozen young fighters stopped their sparring rounds, turning their heads to watch the woman with the white fiberglass cast march across the floor.
Dominic followed two paces behind her, his expensive overcoat and cold, commanding presence immediately silencing the whispering trainers.
Grace marched up the iron spiral staircase leading to the glass-walled mezzanine office overlooking the training floor.
She slammed the office door open with her left foot.
Inside, the air was thick with blue cigar smoke.
Frank Dalton was sitting behind a battered metal desk, his boots propped up on an open ledger, counting a stack of twenty-dollar bills.
Across from him, sitting in a worn vinyl armchair with two aluminum walking canes leaning against his knee, was Michael Carter.
Michael looked up, his pale, weathered face breaking into a look of sudden, panicked guilt.
"Grace?" Michael said, his voice raspy and frail.
"What are you doing here, honey?"
Grace stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her eyes darting between her father and the smirking promoter.
"Dad," Grace choked out, stepping into the room.
"Why are you here?"
"Why are you sitting in Frank Dalton's office?"
Michael looked down at the mug of cold coffee resting in his lap, his thin shoulders trembling under his faded flannel shirt.
"Frank called me, Grace," Michael whispered, unable to meet her gaze.
"He told me you were hurt."
"He told me you had an accident in the ring."
Grace turned her furious gaze toward Dalton, her uninjured fist clenching so hard her fingernails dug into her palm.
"You brought my sick father into this sewer because I broke my hand?" Grace yelled, stepping toward the desk.
Dalton did not flinch.
He casually slid the stack of cash into his desk drawer and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the blotter.
"I didn't bring him here to threaten him, Grace," Dalton said, his voice irritatingly calm.
"I invited an old friend down for a cup of coffee to talk about an old arrangement."
Grace froze.
She looked back at her father, whose head was bowed so low his chin touched his chest.
"An old friend?" Grace repeated, the words feeling heavy and toxic on her tongue.
"Dad... what is he talking about?"
Michael let out a long, ragged sigh that sounded like paper tearing in the wind.
"Frank and I go back a long time, Grace," Michael said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the office fluorescent lights.
"Thirty-four years."
"Long before you were born."
Grace felt the floor tilting beneath her worn sneakers.
"From where?" she asked, her voice dropping into a desperate whisper.
"Michael was my first head trainer when I opened my first gym in the third ward," Dalton answered for him, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"Back when your old man still had two good legs and a reputation in this town."
Grace took a step backward, bumping against Dominic, who had entered the office and now stood like a wall of stone behind her.
"You told me you found me at the amateur regionals, Frank," Grace said, her breath turning shallow.
"You told me you saw my jab at the county tournament and wanted to represent me."
"I knew who you were the minute you laced up your first pair of gloves, kid," Dalton sneered.
"I've been keeping track of Michael's little girl since you were twelve years old."
Grace turned on her father, the betrayal hitting her with the force of a bare-knuckle right cross.
"Dad... you knew?" Grace asked, tears finally spilling over her bruised lower eyelids.
"You let me sign a promotional contract with a loan shark?"
"You let me get hit in basements for six months, thinking I was saving your life?"
Michael Carter raised his head, tears streaming down the deep creases of his weathered, sunken cheeks.
"I didn't want you to fight, Grace!" Michael cried, his voice cracking with unbearable anguish.
"I begged you not to go near the gyms!"
"I begged you to stay in school!"
"Then why am I signed to him?!" Grace shouted, gesturing wildly with her heavy white cast.
"Because I borrowed money from him, Grace!" Michael shouted back, slamming his trembling palm against the wooden armrest of his chair.
The room fell dead silent.
The only sound was the distant, muffled thud of a heavy bag on the floor below.
Grace stopped breathing.
"You what?" she whispered.
Michael covered his face with his calloused, trembling hands.
"Fourteen months ago," Michael sobbed into his palms.
"Before you started fighting professionally."
"The clinic demanded a down payment just to run the initial MRI series and spinal nerve conduction studies."
"We didn't have the cash."
"Our savings were completely gone after your mother's funeral."
"I went to Frank."
"I asked him for a private personal loan."
Grace stared at her father as if he were a stranger who had walked into her life wearing her family's face.
"How much, Dad?" Grace asked, her voice dead, flat, and hollowed out of all emotion.
"How much did you borrow from him?"
Michael lowered his hands, looking at his daughter with eyes full of absolute ruin.
"Twenty thousand dollars," Michael whispered.
Silence descended upon the small office once more.
Dominic, who had remained silent in the doorway, slowly stepped forward.
His eyes flicked from Michael's broken posture to the smirking promoter behind the desk.
"Twenty thousand?" Dominic asked, his deep baritone cutting through the thick smoke like a blade.
Dalton’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second as Dominic stepped into the light.
Dominic looked down at the carbon copy of Grace’s contract that Croft had summarized earlier that morning.
"Dalton's legal filing claims Grace owes seventy-eight thousand dollars in accumulated advances, promotional penalties, and interest," Dominic said.
Grace turned her head slowly, looking back at Dalton.
"Seventy-eight thousand?" Grace echoed, horror gripping her throat.
"My father borrowed twenty thousand!"
Dalton shrugged his broad shoulders, completely unbothered by the accusation.
"Interest runs high in this neighborhood, kid," Dalton said, leaning back in his squeaking leather chair.
"Plus gym rental, sparring partner fees, cornerman stipends, and medical travel."
"It adds up."
"You signed the consolidation agreement six months ago, Grace."
"You agreed that your purse earnings would pay off Michael's personal note along with your promotional advances."
"You turned her into an indentured servant to pay a loan shark debt," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register of icy, murderous clarity.
Dalton’s eyes narrowed, his bravado returning as he leaned forward over his desk.
"I don't care who you are, Vale," Dalton spat, pointing a thick, nicotine-stained finger at Dominic.
"This is a signed financial contract between two consenting adults."
"Michael took the cash."
"Grace signed the assumption of debt."
"If she doesn't fight, or if she hides behind a medical note, I file the default paperwork with the county clerk tomorrow morning."
"I take Michael's house."
"I take his disability pension."
"And I take every single paycheck Grace ever earns cleaning your fancy carpets."
Dominic did not shout.
He did not reach across the desk to crush Dalton's windpipe, though his shoulders remained coiled with lethal tension.
"You are not filing anything tomorrow morning, Dalton," Dominic said smoothly.
"Because my forensic accountants are going to audit every single receipt, invoice, and ledger entry attached to this debt."
"And if a single dollar does not have a verified paper trail, you will not be collecting money."
"You will be answering questions from the federal grand jury about extortion and wire fraud."
Dalton’s face flushed a deep, ugly red, but he did not back down.
"Go ahead and audit, Vale," Dalton sneered, a wicked gleam sparking in his yellowed eyes.
"Audit every single page."
"You might want to pay very close attention to where that initial cash came from four years ago."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"What did you say?" Dominic asked.
Dalton stood up, resting his knuckles on the desk, looking directly past Grace and into Dominic's face.
"I said your family's name is already all over these books, Dominic," Dalton whispered with venomous delight.
"Now take your little housemaid and her crippled father out of my gym before I call the police for trespassing."
Dominic held the promoter's gaze for five agonizing seconds.
Then, he turned to Michael Carter.
"Mister Carter," Dominic said, his voice cool and steady.
"Take your canes."
"You are leaving with us."
Michael looked at his daughter, then at the mafia boss standing beside her, and slowly pulled himself up on his aluminum canes.
May you like
Grace did not say another word.
She turned her back on Frank Dalton, walking out of the smoke-filled office into the cold industrial wind, feeling the foundations of her entire life crumbling beneath her feet.
