My Corrupt Uncle Forced Me to Work off Fake Mob Debts in a Backroom Clinic — Until My Sleeves Rolled Up and Revealed My Late Father's Elite Trident Tattoo
Captain Nico’s face turned ashen, his gaze fixed on Leo. The shock of his son’s words hit him hard, cutting through his composure. He didn’t question Maya, didn’t ask for details, he just nodded slowly, his jaw clenching. He knew.
Meanwhile, Bruno was already in motion. He’d seen Victor’s frantic calls and hushed conversations with Fanucci after Nico’s demand for an update on Leo. He knew Victor was trying to cover his tracks.
Bruno moved fast, his heavy black sedan cutting through the late-night traffic on Elm Street. He spotted Fanucci’s office, a discreet brownstone with a brass plaque. A faint flicker of light emanated from inside.
He burst through the unlocked front door, the stale air thick with the smell of cheap paper and something acrid, burning.
Fanucci was standing over a metal waste bin, a small fire dancing inside. Blackened scraps of paper curled at the edges. His face was a mask of panic, his hands shaking as he tried to feed more documents into the flames.
“What do you think you’re doing, Dominic?” Bruno’s voice was a low growl, echoing in the quiet office.
Fanucci screamed, a high-pitched, pathetic sound, dropping a stack of papers. They scattered across the floor, some singed, some intact.
Bruno moved quickly, pushing Fanucci aside with a brutal shove. He kicked the waste bin, sending it skittering across the room, stamping out the small fire with his heavy boot. The smell of burnt paper intensified.
He knelt, his eyes scanning the scattered documents. He picked up a thick, leather-bound ledger, its cover embossed with the official seal of the Kowalski family. The corners were blackened, but the main body of the pages remained untouched.
Inside, meticulous handwritten entries detailed the actual financial transactions for the clinic, the property deeds for various fronts, and the true ownership percentages of all assets. Not Victor’s version, but the real one.
And beneath it all, a thick, notarized deed for the clinic itself. The original. Not the forged transfer Victor had used, but the one bearing my father’s genuine signature, and one crucial, undeniable detail: it designated me as the sole heir.
“This is it,” Bruno muttered, his gaze hardened as he looked at the terrified Fanucci cowering in the corner. “The whole damn story, in black and white.”
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