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
I stepped back into the narrow hallway, the sound of my uncle Victor’s frantic movements echoing from the backroom clinic. He was still barking orders at Captain Nico, trying to explain away the trident tattoo. I could feel the captain’s eyes on me, even through the closed door.
My breath hitched.
On the small, flickering monitor mounted above the hall desk, the wounded recruit’s face came into clearer focus. Blood still matted his hair, but there was no mistaking the sharp jawline, the stubborn set of his chin.
Leo Cassano.
Captain Nico’s youngest son, barely a year older than me. He was supposed to be at a family dinner in Brooklyn. I remembered seeing a photo of him, laughing at a picnic only last summer. Now he lay pale and bleeding on my uncle’s steel table.
I pressed closer to the screen, my stomach clenching. Victor was hunched over him, a crude needle in his hand. He wasn’t using the fine suture wire meant for arterial repairs. Instead, he pulled at thick, rough thread, the kind we used for closing deep muscle wounds, not delicate vessels.
“Pressure, Maya, keep pressure,” Victor had snapped at me moments earlier. Now, he worked with a clumsy, almost deliberate slowness, his movements lacking the practiced precision he usually displayed.
A cold dread settled over me. It looked less like an attempt to save Leo and more like a cruel, drawn-out punishment. Was he hoping for complications? A slower, more painful recovery?
My uncle never did anything without a reason. The question was, what reason could he possibly have to want Captain Nico’s son to suffer?
I backed away from the monitor, my heart hammering against my ribs. The hallway suddenly felt too small, the clinic too silent.
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