I Was Kidnapped By A Mob Boss On My Night Shift — He Had No Idea Who He Brought Home

Part 2

The ride down the freight elevator was a study in profoundly uncomfortable silence.

The dead man was wrapped neatly in my industrial black plastic and lay at our feet.

Tyler, the massive enforcer, stood in the corner with his eyes darting between me and his boss.

He looked like he was trying to solve a complex math equation in his head.

Greg stood perfectly still, his posture rigid and his gaze fixed on the descending floor numbers.

I leaned against the cold metal wall, my arms crossed defensively over my chest.

I had grabbed my worn canvas tote bag, which held a transit card, my keys, and the ibuprofen I desperately needed.

I popped two pills dry, swallowing them with a grimace.

Greg murmured without looking at me that I was going to get an ulcer doing that.

I replied flatly that my entire life was already an ulcer.

The elevator opened into the subterranean parking garage, smelling of damp concrete and exhaust.

A sleek black Maybach SUV was idling near the exit.

Tyler hauled the plastic-wrapped package into the trunk with a heavy grunt.

I hesitated at the passenger door, looking at the pristine cream-colored leather seats.

I pointed out that my bleach-stained uniform was going to ruin his upholstery.

Greg opened the door wider and told me to just get in.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing me inside a soundproof, luxurious bubble.

As we glided through the sparse early morning traffic, the tension was palpable.

I kept my knees pressed together, clutching my canvas bag like a shield.

I was being kidnapped by the mafia, which was objectively terrifying.

Yet my mind kept drifting to mundane, persistent anxieties.

I wondered who was going to feed my cat and if my landlord would leave the eviction notice on my door.

Greg watched me from the shadows of the backseat.

He asked me for my name, and I told him it was Brenda.

He told me he was taking me somewhere safe.

I asked him if it was safe for me or safe for him.

A small, genuine smile touched the corner of his mouth before vanishing.

He told me I was a complication, and he didn’t like complications.

I told him my biggest threat wasn’t a gun, but the price of groceries and medical bills.

I told him I was so deeply tired that if he threw me in the river, I might not even try to swim.

He looked at me, realizing I was the most profoundly honest person he had met in years.

He introduced himself as Greg and promised he didn’t throw women in rivers.

He took me to a massive, heavily guarded estate in Long Island.

I woke up the next afternoon in a luxurious guest room, panicking because I had missed my shift at the diner.

I panicked because my sister’s physical therapy co-pay was due at noon.

Greg walked into my room with a silver tray of coffee and breakfast.

He calmly read from a notepad, listing my sister’s medical debts.

He told me the balance was paid in full, and an additional fifty thousand dollars was deposited for her future treatments.

The crushing weight that had sat on my chest for four years evaporated in an instant.

What would you do if the most dangerous man in the city decided your survival was his personal responsibility?