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
Later that night, the clinic was quiet save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system. Captain Nico had left, taking his son Leo with him to a private facility, but Victor remained. He was in his office, talking in hushed tones on the phone.
I waited until I heard the distinct click of his door closing, signaling he was settling in for a long call. Then, I moved.
The clinic’s rear pharmaceutical storage room was cold, smelling faintly of antiseptic and old paper. Metal shelves lined the walls, stocked with medications, bandages, and dusty equipment. I found my father’s old desk tucked into a corner, exactly where he’d left it.
I pulled out a small, steel key from the hidden pocket of my scrub pants. It was a replica I’d made years ago, just in case. The desk drawer creaked open.
Inside, beneath a stack of expired prescription pads, lay a series of thick, spiral-bound notebooks. My father’s medical logs. He had always been meticulous, recording every patient, every dosage, every detail.
I flipped through the pages, searching. Most of it was routine, familiar. Until I reached the entries from six months before he died.
My father’s name was listed, not as the doctor, but as the patient. Daily dosages, carefully noted, of something called ‘thallium’. Small amounts, almost imperceptible. Each entry was accompanied by a clear, confident signature.
Uncle Victor’s signature.
Thallium wasn’t a treatment. It was a slow-acting poison, almost tasteless, used in rat bait. It mirrored the symptoms of various illnesses, making diagnosis difficult. I remembered my father’s fading strength, his sudden weakness, the doctors baffled by his mysterious decline.
It wasn’t an illness. It was a methodical, deliberate poisoning.
Victor had been administering it himself, right here in his own clinic. My hands tightened on the ledger, the paper crinkling under my grip. The cold fear that had been simmering inside me ignited into a blaze of certainty.
My father hadn’t just died. He had been murdered. And Victor had signed his own confession in this very book.
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