Can You Pick Me Up?” She Asked Through Tears—And the Mafia Boss Knew Something Was Wrong

Derek blinked rapidly against the harsh glare of the overhead interrogation lights. The door swung open, and Silas Mercer stepped into the room.

The syndicate boss didn't shout. He didn't carry a weapon. But the aura of lethal, controlled fury radiating from him made Derek shrink back against the chair, whimpering incoherently.

“P-Please!” Derek blubbered, urine staining the fabric of his cheap jeans. “I didn't know she knew you! I swear to God, if I knew she had protection, I never would have laid a hand on her!”

Silas pulled up a metal chair and sat down directly across from Derek. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the terrified worm with dead, expressionless eyes.

“You broke her arm,” Silas said softly.

“It was an accident! She was running away—”

Silas raised a single finger. Bruno stepped forward, delivering a devastating, lightning-fast right hook to Derek’s jaw that sent the chair tipping sideways. Derek spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor, gasping for air.

“For six months, she worked three jobs to pay rent in a shithole apartment while you sat on your worthless hands drinking cheap whiskey,” Silas continued, his voice terrifyingly calm. “She came to O’Rourke’s Diner every single night with bruises under her collar, trying to smile through the pain because she was too proud to ask for help.”

“I’m sorry! I’ll leave Chicago! I swear I’ll never go near her again!” Derek screamed, tears streaming down his face.

“Leave Chicago?” Silas tilted his head. “No, Derek. You aren’t leaving Chicago. You’re going to spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary in Colorado. My legal team is already filing the paperwork for assault, extortion, and trafficking. You will never see sunlight outside of a fenced yard again.”