Chapter 5 - The Debt Collectors' Mistake
Marco stepped to the living room window, moved the curtain by an inch, and chuckled darkly under his breath.
“Three locals, boss. Bottom-feeders from the West Side scrap yard. Led by that petty bookie, Vince 'The Rat' Skaggs.”
Clara rushed toward the door, her hands shaking violently as she attempted to push the heavy deadbolt into place.
“Vince loaned Thomas five thousand dollars three years ago,” Clara whispered frantically, tears blinding her eyes.
“Thomas disappeared, and Vince claimed the interest grew to forty thousand dollars! He came to my job last week, threatened to burn down our house if I didn't give him my paycheck!”
A heavy boot violently kicked the wooden front door, splintering the frame near the top lock.
“Clara! We know you’re in there!” Vince’s raspy, tobacco-stained voice barked from the porch.
“We saw the fancy black truck parked out front! Did you find yourself a rich trick while your kids starve? Open this door and give us our cut, or we’re coming in through the window!”
Lorenzo walked calmly across the kitchen floor.
His leather shoes clicked softly against the linoleum, each step rhythmic, unhurried, and deadly.
He gently took Clara by the shoulder and moved her behind his towering frame.
“Emily,” Lorenzo said without turning his head.
“Close the living room door and stay with your brother.”
I didn't argue.
I pulled the door shut until only a tiny crack remained for me to watch.
Lorenzo stood before the entrance.
He signaled Marco with a subtle tilt of his head.
Marco reached over, unlocked the deadbolt, and yanked the front door open violently.
Standing on our narrow wooden porch were three burly men wearing greasy leather jackets, heavy work boots, and crude brass knuckles wrapped around their fingers.
Vince Skaggs, a greasy man in his late forties with a crooked nose and missing front teeth, had a tire iron gripped in his right hand.
“About damn time, you—” Vince started, stepping forward aggressively.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
His gaze traveled up from the gleaming Italian leather shoes, past the bespoke tailored overcoat, to the chiseled, emotionless face of Lorenzo Moretti.
The tire iron slipped slightly in Vince’s sweaty grip.
The two thugs behind him, both smelling of stale beer and cheap weed, froze instantly, their aggressive smirks evaporating into pure shock.
Nobody in the Detroit underworld failed to recognize the man standing in front of them.
“V-Vince...” one of the thugs behind him stammered, taking a step backward down the porch stairs.
“That’s... that’s Moretti.”
Vince swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the freezing night air.
“M-Mr. Moretti,” Vince stammered, the bravado completely gone from his raspy voice, replaced by a high-pitched squeak of sheer terror.
“We... we didn't know this was your business, sir. We didn't know you had an interest here.”
Lorenzo stepped onto the threshold, towering over Vince by nearly half a foot.
He looked down at the tire iron in Vince’s hand with cold amusement.
“Were you planning to strike Clara Carter with that piece of rusted metal, Vince?” Lorenzo asked softly.
The quietness of Lorenzo’s voice was infinitely more terrifying than any scream or shout could ever be.
Vince instantly dropped the tire iron.
The heavy tool clattered loudly against the wooden porch floor, rolling harmlessly into the corner.
“No, sir! Never! I was just... we were just collecting on Thomas Carter’s legitimate debt! He owed forty grand, Mr. Moretti! We’ve been tracking this woman for six months!”
“Thomas Carter is not in this house,” Lorenzo said, taking one deliberate step forward, forcing Vince to stumble backward off the porch onto the frosty dirt.
“This house belongs to Clara Carter and her children.”
“Yes, sir! Of course, sir!” Vince babbled, raising both hands in surrender, his knees visibly trembling.
“We’ll leave right now! We won't come back!”
“You are not leaving yet,” Lorenzo said.
Marco moved with lightning speed.
Before the two thugs behind Vince could turn to run toward their pickup trucks, Marco had already drawn a matte-black suppressed pistol from beneath his coat, aiming it directly between the eyes of the largest thug.
“Take one more step toward that truck, and your family collects your remains from the incinerator,” Marco warned coldly.
The two thugs immediately threw their hands in the air, dropping to their knees on the frozen mud.
Lorenzo reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an elegant gold lighter, and turned back to Vince.
“Thomas Carter borrowed five thousand dollars, you said?” Lorenzo asked.
“Y-yes, sir,” Vince whimpered.
“And you inflated that debt to forty thousand dollars by terrorizing an exhausted mother working sixteen hours a day to feed a baby?”
“It... it was the street interest rate, Mr. Moretti! Standard business!”
Lorenzo’s face hardened like sculpted granite.
“In my city, predators do not shake down women and children under the excuse of business.”
Lorenzo looked over his shoulder at Clara, who stood frozen in the doorway, staring in disbelief at the men who had terrorized her for years now cowering like beaten dogs.
“Clara,” Lorenzo said calmly.
“Do you want these men to disappear?”
The question hung in the freezing night air like a guillotine blade.
Vince began to weep openly, dropping to his knees beside his men, his forehead pressing against the frozen dirt.
“Please, Mrs. Carter! Please! We’re sorry! We swear we’ll wipe the debt! Thomas doesn't owe a dime! Just don't let him kill us!”
Clara looked at the crying thug on the ground, then looked at Lorenzo’s unyielding eyes.
She took a deep, trembling breath, her maternal dignity rising above the terror of the moment.
“No,” Clara whispered, her voice gaining strength.
“No more blood. I just want them gone from our lives forever.”
Lorenzo nodded once, accepting her judgment without hesitation.
He looked down at Vince.
“You heard the lady,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a lethal, low growl.
“By eight o'clock tomorrow morning, you will deliver Thomas Carter’s original signed promissory note to my downtown office, marked paid in full. If you, your men, or anyone associated with your crew ever comes within one mile of Clara, Emily, or Noah again, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your life at the bottom of Lake Huron.”
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! Thank you, Mrs. Carter!” Vince sobbed, scrambling backward on his hands and knees.
“Get out of my sight,” Lorenzo commanded.
The three thugs scrambled into their trucks like frightened rats, tires screeching wildly against the pavement as they sped away into the darkness, leaving behind only the smell of burnt rubber and cold mist.
Lorenzo turned back toward the house, stepping through the broken doorframe.
May you like
He looked at Clara, whose eyes were wide with a mixture of shock, relief, and overwhelming awe.
“Now,” Lorenzo said calmly, as if he had just checked the weather forecast.
