Chapter 3 - The Price of a Soul
Back inside Harper’s Table, Richard Vance was sitting at the oak counter, reviewing his afternoon receipts with a smirk.
The brass bell jingled.
Vance didn't look up immediately. “Kitchen is closed until five-thirty, folks.”
“I’m not here for dinner, Richard.”
Vance glanced up, annoyed, only to find the impeccably dressed gentleman from Table Twelve standing before him. The man wore a bespoke charcoal wool overcoat over an open-collared navy shirt. His shoes were polished calfskin, untouched by city salt. Behind him stood another man, broader, watching the corners of the room with the relaxed vigilance of a seasoned strategist.
“Can I help you, sir?” Vance asked, his voice modulating into the sycophantic register he reserved for customers who smelled of real money. “Did you leave something at your table?”
Ethan stepped closer. He didn’t lean on the counter. He stood entirely still, projecting the terrifying weight of someone whose time was measured in thousands of dollars per minute.
“I left an impression,” Ethan said softly. “And I came back to confirm it.”
Vance laughed nervously. “I apologize again for the scene earlier. That girl was a problem. In this business, you give them an inch, they bleed you dry. Staff discipline is everything.”
“Tell me about Arthur Harper,” Ethan said.
The smile vanished from Vance’s lips. His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Arthur Harper,” Ethan repeated, pulling a slim leather folder from his interior pocket and dropping it lightly onto the laminated counter. “The man whose name is on the awning. The man who owned this building unencumbered for thirty-four years until he suffered a stroke fourteen months ago. The man whose nephew—you—convinced him to sign over operational power of attorney while he was recovering in an assisted living facility in Oak Park.”
Vance’s face darkened instantly. He pushed back from the stool, his chest puffing out. “I don't know who you think you are, pal, but you need to get the hell out of my restaurant before I call the cops. You're trespassing on private property.”
“It isn’t your property, Richard,” Ethan said evenly.
Nolan stepped forward, opening a second tablet with a screen glowing bright under the fluorescent diner tubes. “Ten minutes ago, Calloway Capital Acquisitions executed a buyout of the secondary lien on this commercial parcel from Midwest Horizon Bank. We also purchased the delinquent tax deed from Cook County for three hundred and eighty thousand dollars in certified funds.”
Vance swallowed dryly. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What... what are you talking about?”
“You haven’t paid the building’s real estate taxes in three quarters,” Ethan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “You took the operational revenues, diverted them to an offshore online gambling account registered in Curaçao, and leveraged the restaurant’s primary mortgage to keep the suppliers from cutting off your deliveries. You were two weeks away from bankruptcy and foreclosure.”
“You can’t just buy someone’s business out from under them in an hour!” Vance shouted, his voice cracking into panic.
“I can,” Ethan said. “And I did. As of four-fifteen this afternoon, I am your landlord, your sole creditor, and your majority receiver.”
Ethan paused, letting the silence settle like lead in the room.
May you like
“And you are trespassing in my dining room.”
***
