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
The darkness was thick, pressing in on me. I stood utterly still, listening. The sounds of Victor’s frantic activity above slowly faded, replaced by the ominous silence of the locked basement. My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs.
I had to get out.
My fingers brushed against the small surgical probe tucked into the pocket of my scrubs, a slender stainless-steel tool, usually used for delicate dissections. It was thin, rigid, and just might work.
I moved by touch, finding the wall nearest the old laundry chute. It was a relic from the clinic’s original construction, a narrow, forgotten passage running from the upper office down to the basement laundry room. It was secured by an ancient, rusted padlock.
My father had taught me about basic locks, about leverage and pressure points. “Sometimes, Maya, the simplest tools are the most effective,” he’d said, showing me how to open a cheap combination lock with a hairpin.
I inserted the probe into the keyhole, feeling for the pins. The metal was cold against my skin. I pressed, twisted, listened for the faint clicks. Seconds stretched into an agonizing eternity. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
*Click.*
The padlock sprang open with a soft, surprising ease.
I pulled it off, dropped it to the floor, and carefully, silently, hoisted myself into the narrow, dust-filled chute. It was a tight squeeze, smelling of old lint and disuse. I pulled myself upward, inch by painstaking inch, toward Victor’s office.
I reached the top, my muscles aching, and quietly pushed open the small hatch that led directly behind Victor’s wall safe. It was hidden behind a large, garish portrait of a ship, a painting I always hated.
The safe was old, a heavy steel box embedded into the wall. My fingers, still trembling, traced the dial. I remembered the UV-reactive coordinates from my tattoo. Broad Street Financial. 142. They weren’t for a bank, not directly. They were the combination. N40.7128. W74.0060.
I slowly dialed the numbers, the clicks of the tumblers sounding impossibly loud in the silent office.
*Click. Click. Click.*
The heavy steel door swung inward with a faint, metallic groan. Inside, a stack of crisp bills, several thick binders, and a single, sealed document. It was a thick, legal-sized envelope, stained faintly with a reddish-brown mark. Blood.
My father’s handwriting was clear on the front: “LAST WILL & TESTAMENT – K. KOWALSKI.”
I pulled out the document, my fingers closing around the cold, stiff paper. This was it. The real one.
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