Blood and Moonlight

Chicago City Hall – Dept. of Works – 6:47 PM The city doesn’t sleep, but City Hall does. And by 6:47 PM, the marble halls were empty except for security and the poor suckers on probation, like Elena. She had been here since 7 AM. Twelve hours, three energy drinks, and one manila folder that smelled like expensive cologne and bad decisions. On the top of the folder typed boldly were the words: CAVALLERO WASTE MANAGEMENT She flipped open the folder and read the information. Zoning Variance Request – Lot 47B, South Loop. Project: “Community Recycling & Arts Initiative” Bullshit. Elena had mapped the block. Lot 47B is a half-demolished church between two low-income apartment buildings. No one would build an “arts initiative” there unless the art is money laundering. Her phone buzzed. It was her father; he had been calling since she told him she got the city job. She could still remember the words he said when she gave him the news: “Don’t become the signature that takes homes, mija. Like the one that took ours.” Those words haunted her even now. She looked down again at the folder still open. A sticky note in her boss’s handwriting lay on the top of the first page. “Sign off by EOD or we’ll have to “re-evaluate your fit for this department.” Translation: Sign, or you’re fired before probation ends. Six years of college, $80K in loans, for nothing. The door clicked. She didn’t hear him come in, didn’t smell him either. Later she’ll realize that should have bothered her. Right now, he’s just a man in a suit that costs more than her car. “Working late, Miss Rossi?” Elena slammed the folder shut like it was porn. “This building’s closed to the public, Mr.—” “Cavallero. Vincent.” He didn’t offer a hand, and she didn’t expect him to. He just leaned against her desk, too close, reading the framed eviction notice on her wall upside down. “‘Order of Displacement, 2014.’ Sentimental, are you?” “It’s a reminder.” She replied, her voice coming out smaller than she wanted. “Of what?” He picked up the Cavallero file. His thumb brushed the bottom of the page, to the empty line where her signature should have been. “That systems hurt people? Or that people let them?” Her chair scraped as she stood. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but—” “I’m not implying anything.” He dropped the file and it landed open, right in front of her. “I’m telling you how this works. You sign, Lot 47B gets its variance. You don’t sign, I find a planner who will, and you go back to pouring lattes with a master’s degree.” He wasn’t threatening and she knew it. That was the worst part of the situation. He was stating facts, simplifying her entire life in a few words like someone reading the weather. “My dad—” Her throat closed. God, she was going to cry in front of a mob boss. This was officially one of her lowest moments. “My dad lost his shop to a signature like this.” Vincent went still. For the first time, he actually looked at her. Not her resume, not her desk, Her. His eyes were brown, she noted unintentionally, ordinary enough to trust—until the hallway light caught them and turned them molten amber. Then he smiled, and it was not kind. “Then you should understand better than anyone. The system doesn’t care who’s holding the pen. Only that the pen moves.” He pulled a Montblanc from his jacket and set it on the folder. “Your dad’s shop. What block was it?” “Why?” She asked, wondering what was going through his mind. “Humor me.” He replied, dryly. “1400 S. Racine.” Vincent nodded once. “We own that block now and in two weeks, a new bodega opens there. Rent-free for two years. It can be in your father’s name, if he wants it.” Elena’s knees almost gave. The knowledge that he had researched her laid upon her like a wet blanket. She couldn’t believe it. “That’s bribery.” She spluttered. “That’s a correction.” He tapped the signature line. “You want to fix cities, Miss Rossi? This is the only way to do it. From inside.” His gaze darkened slightly. “With teeth.” She stared at the pen. Then the eviction notice. Then him. She tried to think but found her hands moving before her brain could catch up. Elena Rossi — the letters slant, shaky. The moment the pen lifted; she felt the building exhale. Or maybe it was her. Vincent took the file, the pen, and tucked both away like he was closing a coffin. “Probation’s over. Congratulations, you’re management now.” He was at the door before she could speak. “I’ll walk you to your car. It’s dark.” “I’m fine—” She finally mustered the courage to begin. “It wasn’t a question.” And that was that.