Chapter 3 - The Ledger of Blood and Bread
The man in the tweed suit stopped beside Julian, snapping open the leather briefcase with a crisp, metallic click. Inside lay neat stacks of heavy, cream-colored paper stamped with crimson seals.
"Everything is in order, Mr. Vance," the man said, his voice flat and professional. "Victor Vance signed the transfer papers thirty minutes ago at his downtown office. He didn't even realize he was selling his own funeral pyre."
Maria stared at the open briefcase, her mouth slightly open. "Victor sold the block? But his family has owned these tenements since the seventies. He boasts about it every time he collects the rent."
"Victor was overextended," Marcus explained, not looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on the heavy wooden door of the tenement building fifty feet away. "He borrowed heavily from offshore syndicates to fund his new luxury developments across town. When the interest rates spiked last month, his liquidity dried up. We simply bought his debt from the syndicate at a fifty percent discount, then called the note due at noon today."
Elena wiped her hands on her white apron, leaving two dark streaks of grease across the fabric. "If Victor has no money... he’ll have nothing to lose. You don't understand how men like that operate when they are cornered. They don't just walk away."
Julian turned his head slowly, looking Elena dead in the eye. "Neither do we."
The heavy wooden door of the tenement slammed open with a loud crack that made several onlookers jump. A thickset man in a rumpled silk shirt and gold chains burst onto the pavement, his face mottled with purple rage. It was Victor. He held a crumpled sheaf of papers in his thick fist, waving them wildly in the air.
"What is this game?" Victor roared, storming toward them with three burly men trailing closely behind him. "Some corporate clowns think they can buy my property out from under me with funny money? I want names! I want security!"
The three men flanking Victor fanned out, their hands sliding ominously toward their waistbands.
Marcus didn’t even blink. He slowly unbuttoned his navy blue suit jacket, sliding his hands smoothly into his trouser pockets.
"Victor," Julian called out, his voice carrying an icy calm that stopped the landlord in his tracks. "You don't remember us, do you?"
Victor squinted through the glaring afternoon sunlight, his small, pig-like eyes scanning Julian and Marcus’s expensive Italian leather shoes before rising to their cold, unblinking faces. "I don't know who you little snots think you are, but you picked the wrong street to play Wall Street."
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"We aren't Wall Street, Victor," Marcus said, taking a slow step forward. "We’re the audit."
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