My Boss Noticed I Was Hiding A Broken Arm — By Morning, 15 Men Disappeared
Part 1
Porcelain rattled a brittle sound against the silver tray.
I clamped my teeth together, tasting old blood on my bitten tongue.
I forced my hand to grip the handle harder.
My left arm hung uselessly, buried within the folds of a charcoal cardigan.
Beneath the fabric, my forearm throbbed in rhythm with my racing heart.
A hot spike of agony radiated from my wrist.
It felt like my marrow had been replaced with crushed glass.
Anthony Russo sat behind the massive mahogany desk.
He didn’t look up.
He breathed the air in his estate like a predator.
The scratch of his pen against parchment was rhythmic and precise.
I dragged my left foot slightly to ease the pain in my ribs.
The pen stopped.
The sudden absence of sound was louder than a gunshot.
He observed that I was breathing like a dying dog.
I swallowed hard and offered a quiet apology.
I reached the edge of the desk.
The tray was too heavy for one hand.
I leaned my hip against the wood for leverage.
A sharp spike of pain lashed up my hidden arm.
I gasped, and my right hand jerked.
The silver tray slammed down with a jarring clang.
Hot coffee sloshed over the rim, pooling on the blotter.
I froze as the silence turned suffocating.
I whispered a frantic apology.
I scrambled to dab at the spreading stain.
My shoulder was hiked up in a permanent flinch.
Anthony slowly raised his eyes.
They were the color of wet slate and entirely devoid of pity.
He knew what a lie looked like.
He told me to stop.
I kept scrubbing, promising I could fix it.
The command carried a physical weight that pinned me to the spot.
I dropped the napkin.
Anthony pushed his chair back and stood up.
My instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs felt like lead.
He stopped inches from me.
His gaze was fixed on my oversized sleeve.
He demanded I take the sweater off.
I lied and told him I was cold.
The sweat on my neck betrayed me instantly.
He threatened to cut it off if I didn’t comply.
Defeat washed over me.
I pushed the fabric off my shoulder.
With agonizing slowness, I shimmied the thick wool down.
A low whimper escaped my lips.
My left arm was exposed in the harsh light.
The flesh was swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
The skin was painted in sickening hues of mottled purple.
The forearm bowed inward in an unnatural curve.
It was wrapped tightly in gray duct tape over a glossy magazine.
He asked who did it.
I told him I fell on the ice.
He dissected the lie with surgical precision.
He mimicked the violent curve of my arm.
He stated it only happens when you protect your skull from a blunt object.
He took half a step closer.
The air in the room felt thick and combustible.
He demanded to know who took a pipe to his employee.
It was a primitive sense of ownership.
I was a fixture in his house, and someone had taken a hammer to it.
I shook my head, tears spilling over my lashes.
I begged him to let me go back to work.
I was terrified they would kill my brother Tyler.
He instantly pieced it together.
He demanded names.
I choked out Craig Lawson’s name.
I slumped against the desk, defeated.
I told him Lawson’s crew cornered me.
They said Tyler owed thirty grand.
They said the arm was the interest.
They threatened Tyler’s kneecaps next.
Anthony stated plainly that he wasn’t the cops.
He turned his back and picked up the phone.
He called for Dr.
Harris.
Then he picked up his cellular phone.
He called Brian.
He ordered the vans pulled around.
He told them they were going to the rail yard chop shops.
He ordered Brian to bring heavy plastic and bolt cutters.
I slid down the edge of the desk, my legs giving out.
I collapsed into a miserable heap on the rug.
I clutched my splint to my chest, my eyes wide with terror.
I watched him load his weapon, realizing the monster I just unleashed.
