I Spoke Back To A Mafia Boss — The Next Morning, A Black Box Arrived At My Door

Part 2

Panic and adrenaline immediately warred in my chest as I held the heavy metal.

If I actually used it, I was accepting mafia money and intertwining my life with a known criminal.

But as I looked down at a final notice from a debt collector sitting next to my coffee maker, a reckless, desperate wave of exhaustion washed over me.

I told myself I would just test it, just to see if it was actually real.

I grabbed my laptop, my fingers trembling as I booted it up and logged into my mother’s hospital patient portal.

The screen flashed her outstanding balance in bright, aggressive red numbers, showing fourteen thousand dollars.

I selected the option to pay in full, typing in the sixteen digits from the heavy titanium card.

I squeezed my eyes shut and clicked submit, waiting for the inevitable error message or fraud alert.

Instead, the screen refreshed, and a green check mark appeared alongside a zero balance.

I let out a choked sob, falling back into my kitchen chair as fourteen thousand dollars evaporated in a single second.

A manic kind of energy possessed me, because for the first time in my entire life, I wasn’t completely broke.

I threw off my robe, dragged myself into the shower, and put on my best wrap dress.

It was a deep burgundy number that actually flattered my curves instead of hiding them like my awful uniform.

I walked out of my apartment building and completely ignored the subway, hailing a yellow cab instead.

I told the driver to take me to Fifth Avenue.

My first stop was a high-end luxury footwear boutique, because I was done with cheap shoes that mangled my toes.

When I walked into the polished marble-floored store, the two thin, immaculately dressed saleswomen immediately gave me a dismissive look.

It was a quick assessment that determined I was too big, too poor, and too out of place to bother helping.

I didn’t blush or shrink away, because Tony Moretti’s voice echoed in my head, reminding me that I wasn’t shaking.

I demanded custom leather loafers, telling them to measure my exact arch for two pairs.

The saleswoman offered a tight, patronizing smile and warned me they cost three thousand dollars a pair.

I reached into my purse and slapped the heavy, solid titanium black card onto the glass display counter.

The condescension instantly vanished from their faces, replaced by pale, wide-eyed shock as the store manager rushed out to offer me champagne.

An hour later, I walked out onto the bustling sidewalk, feeling absolutely invincible in my temporary, cloud-like supportive walking shoes.

But as I stepped toward the curb to hail another cab, the illusion of safety violently shattered.

A massive, armored black SUV screeched to a halt directly in front of me, blocking the entire crosswalk.

Before I could even react, the back doors flew open, and two enormous men in cheap leather jackets grabbed me.

Their grip was like a steel vice, biting into my flesh as I thrashed against their weight.

An older man with a jagged scar sneered at me, mentioning that Tony Moretti’s untraceable account had just paid off a hospital bill for a waitress.

My blood ran cold as I realized the card had been tracked.

As the Russian mobsters threw me into the back of their SUV, I only had one terrifying question: would the man who gave me the black card even care that I was gone?