My Extortionist Tried To Sell Me To A Mob Boss — But He Made Me His Fake Wife Instead
Part 1
The concrete scraped my cheek, smelling of stale rain and diesel fuel.
Tyler’s boot pressed into my back, and he was laughing that wet, breathless chuckle that meant he was bored of hitting me.
I didn’t pray for a knight in shining armor because nights like that didn’t exist in this part of the city.
I just prayed for the ringing in my ears to stop.
Grease clung to my cuticles, the scent of old fryer oil practically tattooed into my skin after an eleven-hour shift at the diner.
My lower back throbbed, a dull ache that kept time with the blinking neon sign above the back door.
I had just wanted my bed, a mattress that sank in the middle, and a radiator that clanked like a dying engine.
Instead, Tyler had cornered me by the dumpster, demanding the forty dollars in tips I needed for my electric bill.
When I tried to push past him, he yanked me down hard, my rubber-soled shoes slipping on wet garbage.
My palms slapped the asphalt, tearing the skin, and he kicked my side just hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
He told me I was a pathetic cow and that nobody was coming to save me.
The humiliation burned hotter than the scrapes on my hands, mostly because I knew he was right.
The world didn’t stop for women who looked like me, heavy and soft in a society that demanded sharp angles.
Then, a voice cut through the noise of the rain like a scalpel.
It didn’t boom or echo, but it was perfectly calm and freezing cold.
Tyler froze, his grip on my hair loosening, and I cracked my eyes open.
The street lamp backlit a man in a long dark wool overcoat, his face carved from exhaustion and cold pragmatism.
He walked like he owned the concrete, and two massive men in dark suits materialized behind him like ghosts.
Tyler scrambled backward, his braggadocio replaced by raw animal terror, babbling about owing money to Mr. Rossi.
Craig Rossi didn’t even look at Tyler.
He looked down at me, taking in my torn pantyhose, muddy thighs, and bleeding knuckles.
I expected disgust, the way men usually looked when they caught me staring back.
But Craig’s gaze didn’t waver, completely devoid of pity.
He told Tyler it was insulting to see him shaking down a waitress for pocket change.
Tyler desperately offered me to Craig as payment, babbling that they liked heavy girls at the docks.
My stomach twisted into a cold knot, and I pushed myself up, ready to try and crawl away.
Craig slowly pulled out a silver lighter and a cigarette, the click deafening in the silence.
He took a slow drag, the cherry burning bright, and asked Tyler if he really thought he trafficked in collateral.
He didn’t raise his voice, just nodded to the massive man on his left.
The guard grabbed Tyler by the throat and slammed his head against the brick wall.
A sickening crunch echoed, and Tyler slumped unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Craig dropped his cigarette onto the wet asphalt and crushed it beneath his leather shoe.
He reached down, offering me his gloved hand.
He told me Tyler was wrong, and that he wanted me to be his wife.
The interior of the car smelled like expensive leather, dry cedar, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil.
I sat rigidly in the back seat, my arms wrapped tightly around my waist.
My uniform was soaked with dirty rainwater, and I could see the muddy imprint of my shoes on the plush floor mats.
I felt massive, the luxury of the car seeming to shrink around me and amplify every ounce of my weight.
Craig sat beside me, keeping a careful, deliberate distance.
He pulled out a square crystal glass and poured two fingers of amber liquid from a mahogany compartment.
My teeth began to chatter as the adrenaline drained out of my bloodstream, leaving behind a bone-deep cold.
I blurted out that I was going to ruin his seats.
He turned his head slowly, his dead eyes scanning my face without even glancing at the upholstery.
He told me leather wipes clean.
I balled my hands into fists, refusing to cry in front of a man who hurt people for a living.
I told him if he was taking me to the docks, he should just kill me now because I would fight him.
The corner of his mouth twitched, a microscopic break in his stone facade.
He told me I was exactly as heavy as I looked, and he had no business at the docks.
My anger finally bled through the terror, and I demanded to know why people like him would save people like me for free.
He set his glass down, pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and held it out to me.
I snatched it, pressing it to my bleeding lip, smelling the faint scent of laundry starch and expensive cologne.
He leaned his elbow against the armrest and explained his problem with terrifying precision.
The federal authorities had spent three years building a racketeering case against his family.
They expected him to consolidate power by marrying a rival boss’s daughter, which they would use to fast-track an indictment.
He told me they were watching everyone who fit the profile of a mob bride.
His gaze stripped me down to my bare utility.
He pointed out that I was a waitress from the south side with sixty dollars in my bank account and no criminal record.
He called me entirely, perfectly unremarkable.
The word stung, feeling like another kick to the ribs, even if it was true.
I asked if he wanted to marry me just to confuse the authorities.
He corrected me, stating he wanted to break their narrative completely.
A ruthless boss marrying a broke waitress suggested instability, buying him the time he desperately needed to locate a rat in his organization.
I asked what I got out of the arrangement, my cynicism flaring.
He bluntly told me I got to live, because Tyler would have dragged me to someone worse if left in that alley.
He looked at my bruised hands clutching his handkerchief.
He told me I needed a dentist, a safe place to sleep, and money, and he had an excess of all three.
I whispered that I wasn’t a prostitute.
His voice hardened slightly as he clarified he didn’t want one, he wanted a wife on paper.
In public, I would live in his home, wear his ring, and smile for the cameras.
In exchange, my debts would be cleared and my future secured.
I looked down at the muddy water pooling on the seat, shivering with a deep skeletal tremor.
I asked what would happen if I said no.
He told me he would drop me at a police station, pay the officers to ignore my report against Tyler, and we would never speak again.
I closed my eyes, the ache in my jaw throbbing as the reality of my choices crushed down on me.
I told him I would be his alibi.
He corrected me softly, stating that if I acted like an alibi, they would arrest us both.
He reached over, his heavy coat rustling, and told me exactly what my new life would cost.
