Chapter 2 - The Audit of Mick O’SheaThe Neon Lounge on the South Side smelled of stale beer, cheap lemon disinfectant, and bad decisions. It was 3:15 a.m., and the club was supposedly closed, its iron security gate pulled halfway down to discourage casual foot traffic.
Inside, Mick O’Shea was leaning back in his faux-leather swivel chair behind a scarred metal desk, counting out a stack of crumpled twenties with thick, tobacco-stained fingers. Two of his muscle-bound enforcers were tossing darts at a board near the back exit, laughing lazily.
"She’ll show," Mick muttered to himself, licking his thumb to turn another bill. "They always show when you squeeze the family."
The heavy steel front door didn't open with a knock.
It exploded inward.
The reinforced lock sheared off its bolts with a deafening crack of splintering wood and screaming metal. The door slammed against the interior brick wall so hard the dartboard rattled off its mounts.
Mick leaped to his feet, his hand instinctively diving toward the shoulder holster beneath his armpit. "What the—!"
Four men stepped through the smoke-tinted gloom of the entrance. They didn't wear uniforms, but they moved with a synchronized, terrifying precision that belonged to elite black-ops units or high-tier syndicate enforcers. They wore tailored black coats, heavy leather gloves, and expressions as empty and merciless as gravestones.
At the front walked Dante Moretti, Victor Castello’s primary advisor and shadow. Dante didn't draw a gun. He simply walked forward, his polished oxfords clicking rhythmically against the sticky floor, holding a sleek black tablet in one hand.
"Mick O’Shea?" Dante asked. His voice was smooth, conversational, and entirely devoid of human warmth.
Mick’s hand froze over his holster, sweat instantly beading on his forehead as he recognized the cut of Dante’s suit and the gold signet ring on his right hand. The Castello crest. The blood drained from Mick's face until he looked like curdled milk.
"Dante... man, I didn't know—is this about the district tax? I got the envelope ready for Thursday—"
"This isn't about district taxes, Michael," Dante said, stopping three feet from the desk. He didn't look at Mick; he looked down at the tablet, scrolling through a single digital document with his thumb. "This is about a ledger discrepancy. Specifically, sixty thousand dollars loaned to a civilian named Sadie Hayes at an interest rate that violates every protocol of territorial stability."
"She... she came to me!" Mick stammered, his knees buckling slightly against the edge of his desk. "She needed cash for her brother! It’s a private arrangement, Dante! It has nothing to do with the Castello family!"
"Everything that moves within fifty miles of the Atlantic has something to do with the Castello family," Dante corrected softly. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Mick with flat, dead stillness. "Especially when your little collection agency decides to threaten people who clean Mr. Castello’s floors."
Mick swallowed hard, panic seizing his throat. "Look, we can work this out. I’ll rip up the contract! The debt is wiped clean, I swear to God—"
"The debt isn't wiped clean," Dante interrupted, stepping closer. "It’s been acquired."
Before Mick could draw another breath, Dante’s men moved. In less than three seconds, Mick was dragged across his own desk, his arms pinned behind his back with bone-breaking force, while his two enforcers found themselves staring down the barrels of silenced pistols held by men who looked like they enjoyed the view.
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Dante reached out, picked up Mick’s ledger with two fingers as if it were toxic waste, and tossed it into a metal trash can. Then, he pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, flicked a blue flame, and dropped it right on top.
"Mr. Castello sends his regards," Dante whispered into Mick's ear. "And as of right now, Sadie Hayes’s debt belongs to him. Which means if you ever look at her, speak to her, or breathe in her direction again, you won't have to worry about loans anymore. You'll just have to worry about concrete."
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