Chapter 3 - Gathering the ThreadsIn the basement archives of the Fourteenth District, navigating the bureaucracy of police records required more than just money—it required leverage. Frank Russo had spent forty years building a network of retired clerks, disgruntled dispatchers, and financially compromised court stenographers who knew where every municipal skeleton was buried.
By midnight, a thick stack of unredacted documents sat on Frank’s desk in a private office above a quiet Italian bakery on Taylor Street.
Lorenzo sat across from him, flipping through the pages under the harsh glow of a brass desk lamp.
“He’s clean on paper,” Frank noted, taking a slow sip of espresso. “No internal affairs reprimands. No formal complaints that stuck. Whenever a domestic call came in from their old address, Derek’s partner—Officer Tom Galvin—logged it as a ‘verbal dispute requiring no further action.’ The responding units were always handpicked from his shift.”
“And the restraining order?” Lorenzo asked, his voice chillingly calm.
“Denied by Judge Thomas Vance,” Frank replied, sliding a financial ledger sheet across the table. “Vance’s campaign fund received a sudden, anonymous $15,000 cash injection three days before the hearing. Traceable back to a shell account registered under Derek’s uncle, Deputy Chief Vincent Mitchell.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed as he studied the numbers. It was a closed loop of corruption—a small-scale ecosystem where badges protected brothers, judges took quiet donations, and victims were left screaming into a vacuum.
“Is it enough?” Lorenzo asked.
“To put him in prison today? No,” Frank admitted frankly. “The department will circle the wagons. The union lawyer will argue it’s a bitter divorce dispute with manufactured evidence. But to destroy his career, strip his pension, and make him toxic to every cop in the state? It’s more than enough.”
“What about public exposure?”
“We aren't going to the media yet,” Frank said, leaning forward. “Public trials give corrupt cops heroes’ pedestals in the police union. We’re going to Internal Affairs, but not through the suggestion box. We’re going to hand-deliver the packet to Director Kathleen Reed—a woman who has spent five years trying to clean out the Fourteenth District's backroom politics. She hates dirty cops more than we do.”
Lorenzo stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “When does she get it?”
“Tomorrow morning at 8:00 AM sharp. Hand-delivered by a courier who won't leave a trail.”
“And Maria?”
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“Secure,” Frank assured him. “She’s staying in the guest quarters in the mansion’s secure west wing tonight. Nobody gets near her.”
Lorenzo nodded once, stepping out into the cool Chicago night. The city lights flickered in the distance, indifferent to the quiet storm gathering beneath their feet. Derek Mitchell was about to learn that stepping inside the Duca perimeter wasn't just a miscalculation—it was an invitation to total destruction.
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