My Mob Matriarch Mother Faked My Overdose Death To Take My Syndicate Rank — 12 Years Later, A Hidden Mob Ledger Revealed Her Betrayal
The hours bled into each other, marked only by the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights and the dull ache in my bound limbs. They gave me an injection, and a heavy drowsiness settled over me, but I fought it. I had to stay awake. They couldn’t put me back to sleep for another twelve years.
Sometime in the deep night, a soft click echoed from the door. I forced my eyes open. The guard, a hulking man I’d only glimpsed earlier, was slumped in his chair outside, snoring softly.
The door eased open. A frail figure slipped inside. Arthur Pendelton. The syndicate’s tax accountant. The notary. The man who had stamped my death certificate.
He looked like a ghost, paler and thinner than I remembered. A hacking cough wracked his body, and he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth. When he pulled it away, a dark stain bloomed on the white cloth.
“Arthur?” I rasped, my voice weak.
His eyes, sunken and shadowed, met mine. Fear, but something else too, flickered within them. Guilt.
“Julian,” he whispered, his voice raspy. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He swayed slightly, gripping the back of a chair. “Lung cancer. Stage four. They gave me weeks, maybe months.” He coughed again, a wet, rattling sound. “No reason to keep quiet anymore.”
My eyes narrowed. “Quiet about what, Arthur?”
He swallowed hard. “Your death certificate. It was a fraud. Teresa made me sign it.”
A cold tremor ran through me. “She made you? For what?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he confessed, the words spilling out in a rush. “Cash. To erase your identity. To make way for Mark to take over without a vote. She said you were a liability, that you’d been compromised.”
My mind reeled. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to erase my existence. The sheer calculation of it was staggering.
“Where’s the proof?” I demanded. “Where’s the evidence?”
Arthur reached into his pocket. His hand trembled as he pulled out a heavy, ornate brass key. It gleamed under the harsh lights.
“A safe deposit box,” he whispered, his breath catching. “Center City. Commercial Bank. Box four-oh-eight.”
He pressed the key into my hand. It was cold and solid, a tangible link to the truth.
“It’s all in there,” he said, his voice fading. “The original agreements. Everything.”
He fumbled with the straps on my chair. “I can’t undo these without making noise.” He then walked to the rear door of the room, a heavy steel exit I hadn’t noticed.
“This is the service exit,” he said, his voice barely audible. “It’s unbolted. Get out, Julian. Now. Before Leo comes back.”
He pushed the door ajar, revealing a sliver of dark alleyway. Then, with a final, ragged cough, he stumbled out, disappearing into the shadows.
I stared at the heavy brass key in my palm, my heart pounding. Freedom. Proof. It was all within reach.
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