Chapter 3 - The Men from the West Side
The smoke of shattered wood hung suspended in the filtered air of my foyer like a grey veil.
I dropped my coffee mug. It shattered against the white oak flooring, dark liquid splashing across my designer rugs, but I didn't care. My eyes were fixed on the gaping threshold where my heavy oak door used to be.
Three men stepped through the wreckage.
They didn't look like process servers or bank representatives. They wore heavy leather jackets over tactical layers, their shoulders broad, their faces hardened by years of street-level violence and unchecked brutality. The man in the lead was tall, bald, with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone. He held a thick manila folder in one hand and a heavy iron crowbar in the other, letting the tip drag lazily across the floor, leaving a screeching scratch on the hardwood.
“Maya Vance?” the bald man asked. His voice sounded like gravel grinding inside a cement mixer.
I didn't cower. I backed up slowly toward the kitchen island, my hand sliding discreetly across the marble surface until my fingers brushed against my heavy brass paperweight.
“You’re trespassing,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “I’m calling the police right now.”
The man laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Call whoever you want. By the time squad cars navigate downtown traffic, we’ll be finished discussing your father’s debts.”
He stepped further into the living room, his boots tracking mud across my pristine floors. He tossed the thick manila folder onto my glass coffee table. It slid open, scattering dozens of printed financial documents across the surface.
I caught a glimpse of the letterhead: Apex Capital Holdings.
“Richard Vance signed a promissory note for one point two million dollars six months ago,” the bald man said, stopping ten feet away from me. “He used the suburban estate as collateral. But here’s the kicker: when we ran the title search to seize the property this morning, we found out the deed was quietly transferred into a shell corporation three weeks ago. A shell corporation owned by a Maya Vance.”
My blood ran cold. So they had traced the asset realignment. They knew I had legally blocked them from seizing the suburban house through standard foreclosure by shielding it under my holding company.
“My father’s debts are his own,” I said steadily, keeping my grip on the brass paperweight. “Sue him. Put him in prison. The house is legally mine, purchased through independent assets.”
The bald man grinned, revealing a row of crooked, yellowed teeth. “The law is a very slow thing, Miss Vance. And Apex Capital doesn't do slow. Your father didn't just borrow money; he defaulted on high-stakes principal, and he used your family name as a guarantee of payment. If the house is yours, then you are the guarantor. Which means you pay the debt right now, in full, or we take payment in alternative assets.”
His eyes roamed slowly over the expensive art on my walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, and finally settled back on me with a predatory hunger.
My phone was still clutched in my left hand. Through the speaker, which was pressed flat against my palm, I could hear Marcus’s frantic voice shouting my name: “Maya! Maya, answer me! Are they in the room? I’m calling SWAT right now!”
I didn't answer Marcus. I looked dead into the bald man’s eyes.
“You think you can break into a downtown luxury penthouse and extort me?” I asked softly. “You think my father’s predatory loans make me your victim?”
“No,” the bald man said, stepping closer, raising the iron crowbar. “We think you’re a rich little girl playing corporate games who’s about to find out what real life costs.”
Before he could swing, I didn't run. I didn't scream.
I pressed the emergency duress button hidden beneath the marble edge of my kitchen island—a silent, direct-line panic trigger wired straight to a private tactical security firm and the Chicago Police Department’s elite quick-response unit.
And then, I smiled.
“You should have checked who actually owns Apex Capital,” I whispered.
May you like
The bald man frowned, pausing mid-step. “What?”
At that exact second, the building’s emergency klaxons began to wail, and the sound of heavy boots stampeding up the reinforced stairwell echoed through the shattered doorway.
