Chapter 7 - The Nonprofit
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The Hopewell Community Center sat in a decaying neighborhood on the south side of Chicago, far removed from the glittering chandeliers of the Bellweather Grand. It was a small nonprofit dedicated to providing after-school programs and meals for at-risk youth. I loved it there. The kids didn't care about my last name; they only cared that I showed up every day with snacks and homework help.
On Monday morning, I walked through the front doors carrying a box of donated art supplies. Daniel walked exactly two steps behind me.
He was dressed in a dark, tailored suit that practically screamed "undercover muscle," though he tried to blend in by taking a seat in a plastic folding chair near the reception desk.
“You stick out like a sore thumb,” I muttered, setting the box down on the counter.
“I’m not here to blend in,” Daniel replied, pulling out a newspaper. “I’m here to make sure anyone who walks through that door knows you aren't an easy target.”
I rolled my eyes and went to work. For the first few hours, it was business as usual. I organized files, answered phones, and set up the classrooms. But the atmosphere shifted around noon.
Three men walked into the community center. They weren't parents, and they weren't volunteers. They wore heavy leather jackets, covered in tattoos that marked them as members of a local street gang that had been trying to extort "protection money" from local businesses for months. They had largely ignored our nonprofit until now.
The leader, a tall man with a scarred cheek, walked directly up to my desk. He slammed a heavy hand down on the counter.
“We hear the girl working the desk is holding out on us,” the man sneered, leaning in close. “We run this block, sweetheart. And we hear your daddy has deep pockets. Time to pay the neighborhood tax.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Word of the gala had trickled down into the streets. They knew who I was, and they thought my father’s wealth made the center a prime target for a shakedown.
“This is a charity for children,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “We don't pay extortion fees. Get out.”
The man laughed, reaching across the counter to grab my wrist. “You think you can talk to me like—”
He never finished the sentence.
Daniel moved with a speed that defied logic. He didn't shout. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply stepped up behind the man, grabbed the back of his leather jacket, and slammed his face brutally into the hard fiberglass reception desk.
The sound of breaking bone echoed in the quiet lobby.
The other two gang members reached for their waistbands, but Daniel was already moving. He delivered a devastating kick to the knee of the second man, dropping him instantly, before grabbing the third man by the throat and driving him backward through the heavy glass entrance doors.
The glass shattered perfectly, raining down on the pavement outside.
Daniel stood over the groaning men on the sidewalk, adjusting his suit jacket. He looked back at me through the broken doorway.
“I suggest you tell your friends that the neighborhood tax has been officially repealed,” Daniel said to the bleeding leader.
He turned around and walked calmly back into the lobby, stepping over the broken glass. He looked at me, his chest barely heaving.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
May you like
“No,” I whispered, staring at him in absolute shock. “Daniel… you just destroyed the front doors.”
“Your father will pay for new doors,” Daniel said, retrieving his newspaper from the plastic chair. “Now, back to work.”
