The Sunken Ledger
The scotch cost more than the apartment Jack Moran had grown up in on the South Side. He watched the amber liquid catch the dim light of Vincent Corradi's office—thirty seconds of reflection in a glass that Vincent had given him with two fingers raised in a toast that meant: you're one of us now, or you're something I'm testing. Jack had been twenty-one when Vincent Corradi took him in. An...
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