Chapter 2 - The $87 Transaction
The Cicero bungalow was small, its red brick walls stained gray by decades of coal dust and diesel exhaust from the nearby railyards. A single, dim yellow porch light struggled against the swirling snow, casting long, shivering shadows across the unshoveled sidewalk.
Drake sat in the back of the armored Cadillac Escalade, the engine idling with a low, imperceptible vibration. Through the tinted window, he watched Maria Santos.
She didn't look like a woman who held an unlimited black card. She was dressed in her standard winter coat—a cheap, faded green parka with synthetic fur around the hood that had gone gray and matted from too many washes. She was shoveling the Mendozas’ sidewalk. Her movements were slow, steady, and deliberate, her small frame leaning into the heavy metal shovel as she cleared a path from the porch to the street.
Every few minutes, she would stop, lean against the handle of the shovel, and blow warm air into her gloved hands.
"She’s been at it for an hour," Vince said from the driver’s seat. "Hector tried to come out with a broom, but she pushed him back inside. The old man’s heart is bad. He wouldn't last five minutes in this wind."
Drake watched her. He had seen women spend millions in his life. He had seen Jasmine drape herself in sable and emeralds that could have bought three blocks of this neighborhood. He had seen Clarissa throw tantrum-fueled fortunes at designers for a dress she would wear once and discard. But he had never seen a woman with unlimited wealth choose to stand in a freezing Chicago blizzard, clearing snow for an old man who had nothing to give her in return.
"Why?" Drake whispered, his voice almost lost to the heater's hum.
Suddenly, Vince’s tablet emitted a soft, high-pitched ping.
Drake looked down. The screen lit up with a new transaction alert.
Drake frowned. "A pawn shop? On the South Side? At nearly midnight?"
"Kovacs & Sons," Vince said, his brow furrowing as he looked at the address. "That’s off 63rd and Halsted. It’s a bad neighborhood, Drake. Gang territory. Mostly junk shops, currency exchanges, and soup kitchens. Why would she buy something there for eighty-seven dollars?"
"She didn't buy it online," Drake noted, pointing to the transaction details. "It was an in-person swipe. But she’s standing right there in front of us, shoveling snow."
"A pre-authorized charge?" Vince suggested. "Or maybe... someone else has the card?"
Drake’s face went cold. "No. Maria doesn't have friends. She doesn't have partners. If someone else has that card, it means she lost it, or someone took it from her."
He pushed the door of the Escalade open.
"Drake, wait!" Vince called out, but Drake was already out in the cold, his leather shoes sinking into the fresh, powdery snow.
Maria didn't hear him approach until his heavy shadow fell across the path she had cleared. She flinched, pulling the shovel back defensively, her hood falling away to reveal her dark, braided hair and a face that was red from the biting wind.
When she recognized him, her eyes didn't fill with the terror that most people showed when Drake Salvati stood before them. They showed only a quiet, weary sadness.
"Mr. Salvati," she said, her voice shaking slightly from the cold. "You should not be here. The street is not safe for a car like yours."
"Who has your card, Maria?" Drake asked, his voice flat, ignoring her warning.
Maria looked down at her gloved hands, then reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out the sleek, heavy metal black card and held it out to him. It was scratched, the edges worn from where it had rubbed against her keys.
"I have it," she said.
"A transaction just went through," Drake said, stepping closer, his presence towering over her. "Eighty-seven dollars at a pawn shop on Halsted. If you have the card, who made the purchase?"
Maria’s breath came in a long, white cloud. She looked past him toward the idling Escalade, then back to his eyes.
"I went there before I came here," she said softly. "The owner, Mr. Kovacs... he is old. He does not keep regular hours. He told me he would wait for me until eleven if I promised to pay the full price. I swiped the card before I left, but his machine is old. Sometimes the bank takes hours to process the dial-up connection."
Drake stared at her. "Eighty-seven dollars. For what, Maria? You have unlimited funds. You could have bought the entire shop. You could have bought the block. Why eighty-seven dollars?"
Maria reached into her other pocket and pulled out a small, tissue-wrapped object. She carefully peeled back the thin, white paper, her fingers trembling as she revealed a small, tarnished silver locket.
It was cheap. The silver plating was worn away at the edges, showing the dull, yellow brass beneath. It was shaped like a heart, with a crude, hand-engraved flower on the front that had been smoothed over by decades of touch.
Drake looked at it, and for a second, the entire street went silent. The howling wind seemed to die. The snow stopped falling.
He didn't breathe. His heart, which had beat with a steady, robotic rhythm through mob wars, federal investigations, and the deaths of his closest associates, gave a violent, agonizing kick against his ribs.
He knew that locket.
He had not seen it in thirty years, but he would have recognized it if it had been buried under ten feet of river mud.
"Where..." Drake’s voice was no longer flat. It was a dry, hollow rattle. "Where did you get that?"
"Kovacs & Sons," Maria said, her voice gentle, almost motherly in its quietude. "It was in a cardboard box under the counter. Behind the old watches and the broken cameras. I have been looking for it for eighteen months, Mr. Salvati. Ever since I found the little yellow paper in your mother's old sewing basket."
She stepped forward, holding the locket out to him on her open palm.
"She pawned it in the winter of 1992," Maria whispered. "To buy the coal for your heater. She got twelve dollars for it. The man who owned the shop then... he wrote the serial number in his ledger. It took me a long time to find the book, but Mr. Kovacs still had it in his basement."
Drake reached out, his hand—the hand that had signed executive orders, paid off senators, and ordered the execution of men who crossed him—shaking so violently he could barely pinch the tiny silver heart between his fingers.
He clicked the latch.
The locket popped open with a tiny, metallic snap.
Inside, protected by a thin, yellowed sheet of mica, was a tiny, faded black-and-white photograph. It showed a little boy with a gap-toothed smile and dark, wild hair, standing next to a young woman with a tired, beautiful face who wore a thin wool coat with a safety pin holding the lapel together.
It was Drake. And his mother, Elena.
Written on the inside of the silver lid, in tiny, scratched letters that had been carved with a sewing needle, were four words:
“Never lose your light.”
May you like
Drake stood in the middle of the frozen Cicero street, the silver locket resting in his palm. His knees felt weak, as if the ground beneath him were turning to water. He looked at the photo, then at the cheap, tarnished metal, and then at the maid who stood before him with snow on her eyelashes.
And for the first time in forty-six years, the most feared man in Chicago felt a tear break from his eye, freezing as it slid down his cheek.
