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
My fingers fumbled with the wax seal on the brass box. I could hear a distant siren wail outside, growing louder then fading away, a reminder that the world beyond these basement walls still existed.
A sharp click echoed from the basement door, and the light from the hallway spilled in. I froze, the box clutched to my chest.
“Maya,” Victor’s voice cut through the silence, flat and devoid of warmth.
He stood in the doorway, two burly men in dark suits flanking him. Neither of them I recognized as his usual crew. Their presence alone was enough to send a jolt of panic through me.
Victor walked slowly toward me, a thin smile playing on his lips. He held a crisp document in his hand.
“Looking for a private hiding spot?” he asked, his eyes falling on the brass box. “Or just having some grief-induced hallucinations again?”
My grip on the box tightened. He knew I was onto him.
“This is an emergency psychiatric confinement draft,” Victor announced, waving the paper slightly. “Prepared by Fanucci. It states you’re experiencing delusions, severe paranoia, and a detachment from reality.”
My breath caught in my throat. He was trying to silence me, to make me disappear. To invalidate anything I might say or find.
“You have until 6:00 AM,” he continued, his voice calm, almost conversational. “Sign over any and all of your father’s remaining property rights to me. Or,” he paused, letting the word hang in the air, “you’ll be committed to a private asylum. Indefinitely.”
He gestured to the two men behind him. They took a step forward, their faces impassive. The cold reality of his threat sank in. He wasn’t just trying to steal my inheritance. He was trying to erase me.
The brass box felt heavier than ever in my hands, a silent testament to the danger I was in.
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