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 silence in the clinic was absolute, a heavy blanket that settled over everything. Victor’s shouts had faded, replaced by an eerie quiet. I knew he was somewhere inside, trapped, frantic.
I made my way through the darkened hallways, the penlight in my hand a tiny beacon. The air was thick with tension, every shadow seeming to hold a hidden threat. I found him in the backroom office, standing by the steel triage table. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and sweat. His expensive suit was rumpled.
His eyes, usually filled with cunning, were now wide with a hunted, desperate fear. He gripped a heavy duffel bag, overflowing with bundles of cash.
“Maya,” he breathed, his voice raw. He reached out a hand, then pulled it back as if burned.
I walked directly to the triage table, the blood-stained surfaces still visible under the faint glow of the emergency lights. I didn’t say a word.
With deliberate slowness, I placed the blood-stained trust deed onto the table. It landed with a soft thump. Next to it, I laid the notarized agreement detailing his $1.2 million payoff from the Moretti Family. His handwritten signature, a crude scrawl, stared up at him.
Victor’s eyes darted from the documents to my face, then back again. His jaw worked, but no sound came out. The duffel bag of money slipped from his fingers, falling with a dull thud to the floor. Bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills spilled across the linoleum, a stark, vulgar contrast to the quiet horror of the room.
“You really think you can beat me, kid?” he finally managed, his voice raspy. He swallowed hard. “We can make a deal. Fifty-fifty. We both walk away rich. Nobody needs to know.”
He gestured vaguely at the scattered cash. The smell of fresh money, of his greed, filled the air.
“No,” I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the terror that still churned in my stomach. My father’s face, pale and distant in his final days, flashed in my mind. The taste of thallium. The betrayal.
“Bruno already delivered copies,” I continued, my voice cold. “To Captain Nico. He’s outside.”
Victor’s eyes widened, then went completely vacant. The color drained from his face entirely. He didn’t look at the money on the floor. He didn’t look at me. He just stared at the clinic door, a silent, absolute defeat settling over him. He knew there was no escape.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours