Rocco followed the girl down the hallway, past rooms that looked as if they had been ransacked. In the kitchen, cabinet doors hung open, revealing nothing but dust and mouse droppings. The refrigerator was unplugged, its door held open with a wooden spoon.
They found Emma’s mother lying on a pile of old blankets in the corner of what had once been the living room.
When she looked up and saw Rocco, fear flashed across her face.
“Please,” she whispered, struggling to sit up. “Please don’t hurt us. We don’t have anything left to take.”
Rocco knelt slowly, keeping his hands visible.
“Ma’am, I’m not here to hurt you. Your daughter told me what happened. I need to know who did this.”
The woman looked between him and Emma, confusion replacing fear.
“You’re… the boss, aren’t you? The one they work for.”
“Some people claim to work for me,” Rocco said carefully. “But what happened to you wasn’t authorized. It wasn’t business. It was cruelty.”
The woman—Sarah—began to cry. Quiet tears born from exhaustion rather than relief.
“They said I owed money to your organization,” she said. “My husband had borrowed from you before he died.”
She shook her head.
“But Marcus never borrowed money from anyone. He worked 3 jobs just to avoid debt.”
Rocco felt his jaw tighten.
“Tell me exactly what they said. Every word you remember.”
“The tall one had a scar across his cheek. He said Marcus signed papers. Said the debt transferred to me when he died. $15,000 plus interest.”
Sarah wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“When I said I didn’t have it, they started taking things. Said they’d come back every week until it was paid.”
“Did they show you any papers?”
“Just a piece of paper with Marcus’s signature. But it didn’t look right. His handwriting was different.”
She looked at Emma, who had sat beside her and was holding her hand.
“They took everything in 2 trips. Furniture, appliances… even Emma’s toys. They said if I called the police, they’d come back for something more valuable.”
Rocco understood the threat immediately. In this world, when material things ran out, people paid with their bodies, their dignity, or their children.
“The man with the scar,” Rocco said calmly. “Did he give you a name?”
“Vincent,” Sarah whispered. “He said his name was Vincent.”
Rocco’s blood turned to ice.
Vincent Caruso.
One of his lieutenants. A man trusted with collections and territory management.
Emma spoke again.
“Mommy… the man with the scar hurt Mrs. Patterson too. And the family with the new baby. I see them crying sometimes.”
Rocco looked at the child with new understanding.
This wasn’t one incident.
Vincent had been running his own operation, using the Moretti name to extort money from families who had nothing left to give.
