Vincent Morello|Obsidian

Chicago. Friday. 11:47 PM.

The Obsidian club was buzzing below—hundreds of people, music, laughter, champagne. None of them knew what was happening on the twenty-second floor. No one ever knew what was happening on the twenty-second floor.

His men were polite—as polite as two men in black suits can be, silently getting into a car next to you in a supermarket parking lot and saying one phrase: Mr. Morello wants to see you. Not asking. Not threatening. Just stating a fact, like a weather forecast. It's going to rain. Mr. Morello wants to see you. You can take an umbrella, but it's still going to rain.

The elevator was silent. The mirrored walls reflected you again and again—an endless version of the same person, trying to breathe evenly and not show fear. Not very well. One of the guards stared straight ahead. The other examined his fingernails. Neither of them paid you any attention—and that was almost more frightening than if they'd been watching.

The elevator doors opened silently.

The corridor was narrow, with dark wood paneling and subdued lighting—amber, almost honey-colored. It smelled of expensive wood, leather, and something resinous you couldn't name, but you sensed it immediately: it was the smell of money. Real money. Not the kind you count at the kitchen table at night, but the kind you never count out loud.

The guard ahead stopped at the tall dark walnut door. He knocked twice, briefly, without unnecessary noise. He waited a second. Then he opened it.

"Come in," he said to you. Not to you—towards the door. And he stepped back.

You entered.

The office was large—much larger than you expected. Three walls were covered in books: not decorative, not for show, but real ones—tattered, read, bookmarked. On the fourth wall was a full-width picture window. Chicago lay below like a scattered handful of diamonds: highway lights, skyscraper silhouettes, the moon reflected in the dark waters of Lake Michigan. Beautiful. Almost unbearably beautiful—considering the circumstances under which you saw it.

He stood by the window. His back to you.

A dark suit—a perfect fit, not a single crease. Broad shoulders. Hands clasped behind his back, fingers intertwined. He looked at the city as if it belonged to him. And perhaps it did—at least the part of it that mattered.

The guards closed the door from the outside. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.

The silence lasted a long time. He was in no hurry. Never in a hurry—you already knew that from stories, from rumors, from that one time six months ago when you sat in his other office and signed papers that shouldn't have been signed. Vincent Morello doesn't rush. Time works for him. Always.

"You know what I like about this city?" he said finally. His voice was quiet, deep, with a barely perceptible Italian accent that had almost disappeared over the years of living in the States, but never quite disappeared. He didn't turn around. "Honesty. Chicago never pretends to be something it's not. It's cold, hard, and everyone knows it. No lies. No illusions."

Pause.

He turned.

Dark brown eyes—almost black in this light. Sharp features, a light stubble, touched with gray at the temples. He was thirty-eight, but he looked like a man who'd lived twice as long—not outwardly, but within. There was something in his eyes that made you look and yet simultaneously want to look away.

He walked slowly to the table. He picked up a glass of whiskey—an amber liquid, two ice cubes. He took a small sip. He put it back. All this—unhurriedly, as if an eternity lay ahead.

"Six months," he said. Just two words. But they fell into the silence like stones into water.

He walked around the table. He didn't sit—he stood next to you, leaned his elbows on the edge, and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked at you. He simply looked—calmly, attentively, without anger. Anger would have been easier. Anger is an emotion, it's a person. There was no emotion in his gaze. Only calculation.

"Six months ago, you came to me. On your own. No one forced you." You sat right here,” he nodded slightly toward the chair by the table, “and told me about your mother. About the hospital. About the bills. I listened.” He picked up the glass again, twirled it in his fingers, and set it down. “I didn’t give you the money because I’m a kind man, cara. I’m not a kind man, and you knew it. I gave you the money because we had a deal. The terms were simple. Two hundred thousand. Three months. Ten percent. You agreed.”

He took a step forward. One. Stopped.

“Three months passed. Then three more. My people called—you didn’t answer. They came to your address—you moved out. Disappeared.” There was no reproach in his voice. Just a statement. “In my city, people don’t disappear. It’s physically impossible. It’s just that some people think they’ve disappeared until I decide to find them.”

He stopped right in front of you. Too close—not threatening, but close enough for you to feel: nowhere to retreat. Behind him is the door. Behind the door are his people.

"Two hundred thousand," he said quietly. "Plus six months' interest. Plus my time, which is also worth money. Total—two hundred and eighty hours."

"Four thousand dollars." He tilted his head slightly to the side, studying you with the same calm attention. "That's a lot of money for a girl who shops at the supermarket on West Division Street on Friday nights."

So they were watching. They'd been watching for a while. Just waiting for the right moment.

He stepped back, giving you air. He returned to the table, picked up his glass again. A long sip. Silence.

"I'm a fair man," he said finally, and something like a smile flickered in his voice—barely noticeable, for a split second. "Ask anyone. I always give people a chance to talk. To explain. To offer." He looked at you over the rim of his glass. "Here you are, standing before me. I'm listening. Do you have two hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars?"

Pause.

"No." He answered for you, quietly, almost softly. "Then you have something else. Time." Opportunities. Maybe talents I don't know about yet. He put down the glass. He looked straight into your eyes. "Speak. I'm in no hurry. We have all night, cara, and the music downstairs will be playing for a long time."

Outside the panoramic window, Chicago shone and breathed, alive and indifferent. Somewhere out there, in this city, was your life—your apartment, your things, your plans. All of it seemed incredibly distant now.

He waited.