Six months contract with the mafia boss

MELIORA Life, for me, has been anything but a fairytale. If life were a garden, mine would be littered with thorns and no roses in sight. It feels like I’ve been handed every bad card in the deck. Ever since that fateful day ten years ago, when I lost my mother in an accident that could have been avoided—if only I hadn’t been so stubborn—things have only gone downhill. That single moment of recklessness left me with more regret than I can ever put into words. Do I wish I could go back and rewrite that day? Absolutely. Do I long to undo the past? Every single day. But life doesn’t grant such luxuries. What’s done is done, and now, I’m stuck with the consequences. One of those consequences is my father’s unrelenting hatred for me. He wasn’t always this way. Once, he was a respected lawyer, a man with principles and purpose. Now, he’s a shadow of that man—a gambler drowning in debt, jobless, and surrounded by the worst kind of people. With a heavy sigh, I pushed open the front door and stepped inside. My foot immediately struck against an empty beer bottle, the clinking sound echoing through the dark, suffocating space. Reaching out, I fumbled for the light switch, my fingers finally finding their mark. I flipped it on, the sudden burst of brightness making me wince and squint as my eyes adjusted. I stood in the middle of the living room, letting my eyes roam over the chaos that greeted me. Empty beer bottles were scattered across the floor, his wrinkled clothes piled carelessly in corners, smoked cigarette butts crammed into ashtrays—or dropped wherever he pleased—greasy takeout containers stacked on every surface, and a few loose coins littered amidst the wreckage. The place was a disaster zone, yet the man responsible for it all was nowhere to be found. With a weary sigh, I let my purse slip from my shoulder and land unceremoniously on the worn-out sofa. Rolling up my sleeves, I prepared myself for the thankless task ahead. As much as I hated coming home after an exhausting shift at the bar to clean up this mess, I knew no one else was going to do it. If I didn’t, we’d be buried under it in no time. I started with the bottles, gathering them into a corner of the room to keep from tripping over them. Moving on, I grabbed the stack of greasy, half-empty takeout plates. There were so many I had to stop and count. “Did he throw a party while I was gone?” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. Ten, Ten plates—probably from different nights he couldn’t be bothered to clean up after himself. Next came the clothes, which I shoved into a haphazard pile in the corner. Once that was done, I gathered up the bottles and plastic plates, carrying them out to the trash bin by the door. Just as I emptied the last of it, a voice from the neighboring window called out to me. “Mel?” my neighbor called. “Is your father okay?” I frowned, my stomach twisting with unease at Mrs. Yale’s question. Was she genuinely concerned, or was this just another veiled attempt to poke fun at my messed-up life? Everyone in the neighborhood knew about my father and his “habits.” They all whispered behind our backs, their pity as loud as their judgments. “I heard a lot of screaming coming from him earlier,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly. “So much that I almost called the cops.” “Screaming?” I repeated, blinking in surprise. My father only ever screamed when I was home, and his venomous words were always aimed directly at me. “That’s not possible. He’s not even here.” Mrs. Yale’s lips pressed into a thin line as she shook her head. “Oh, I’d bet my life he is.” I turned to glance back at the house, confusion furrowing my brows. Could he be in his room? It didn’t seem likely—he always waited for me in the living room, ready to unload his rage on me before retreating to his bedroom. This was off. Too off. “Are you sure about that?” “I’m positive,” she said, leaning on her windowsill. “He never left, not after those men showed up.” My heart skipped a beat. “Those men?” I blurted out, trying to process her words. What was she talking about? Then my mind snapped to the takeout plates I’d just cleared. There had been more than usual—far more. “How many were they?” Mrs. Yale tilted her head, squinting as if searching her memory. “About nine or ten of them,” she finally said. Nine or ten? My stomach sank, and panic shot through me. s**t! I spun on my heel, leaving Mrs. Yale still talking behind me, and dashed back into the house. Should I call 911? What if they’ve already left? What if I’m overreacting? Before I could second-guess myself further, I veered into the storeroom and grabbed the old baseball bat. It used to belong to my brother before the accident took him from us. I gripped the handle tightly, as I crept through the house, trying to be as silent as possible. One by one, I checked each room, my heart hammering in my chest. The kitchen—empty. The bathroom—empty. The guest room—nothing. Finally, I reached my father’s bedroom. My breath hitched as I slowly pushed the door open, gripping the bat so hard my knuckles turned white. But even here, there was nothing. No men. No sign of anyone but my father’s usual mess. Had Mrs. Yale been wrong? I almost let out a sigh of relief and gave up the search when I heard it—a soft whimper. I froze every nerve in my body on high alert. My eyes darted around the room, scanning every corner, every shadow. Where was it coming from? The sound came again, slightly louder this time, unmistakably human. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to move. As I glanced around the room, I carefully avoided looking at the dresser where the photos of my mother and brother sat. Those pictures always broke me, and now wasn’t the time to lose my nerve. The whimper came again, clear enough to confirm that I wasn’t imagining it. That voice—it was unmistakably my father’s. But why was it coming from behind the shelf? Leaning in, I pressed my ear against it, straining to hear. The last time I checked, there wasn’t any room beyond this shelf—just the wall. And then, without warning, the shelf shifted. It opened abruptly, and before I could react, I lost my balance and tumbled forward, landing in complete darkness. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe, let alone move. Then I heard it again—my father’s muffled whimper, more desperate now. The sound sent a shiver down my spine, and my fingers scrambled to pull out my phone. Hands trembling, I fumbled with it, trying to switch on the flashlight. Before I could, a deep, gravelly voice broke through the darkness. “No need for that, love,” it rasped, calm and cold. “I’ll handle the lights for you.” The room suddenly flooded with harsh, artificial light, and I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My heart pounded as my eyes adjusted, and I took in the scene before me. Nine men were standing in the room, their faces cold and unforgiving. I instinctively counted—one, two, three… seven… nine. Each one looked more intimidating than the last. My gaze shifted to the center of the room, and I felt my stomach drop. There, tied to a chair, was my father. His face was bloodied, swollen, and bruised beyond recognition. His clothes were ripped, and his head hung low as though he didn’t have the strength to lift it. I gasped, stepping back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. My grip on the bat was useless now. I was outnumbered, trapped, and completely at their mercy. “Dad!” I screamed, trying to run toward him. But before I could take more than a step, two men moved swiftly, blocking my path. One of them shoved me back with enough force to send me crashing to the floor. Pain shot through my knee as it scraped against the hard ground, but I barely noticed. “Who are you?” I stammered, my voice trembling as I scrambled to my feet. “What do you want—” My words faltered, caught in my throat, when I noticed the guns in their hands. My throat tightened, and fear swirled in my stomach. “Dad?” I whimpered. “Who are these people? And why… why is he tied up like that?” My gaze flicked back to my father, his battered form slumped against the chair, and tears pricked my eyes. The man seated beside him, who seemed to radiate authority, slowly uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. His dark, predatory eyes locked onto mine. “Your daughter is quite beautiful, Marcus,” he drawled, his voice cold. Fear gripped me like a vice, but I forced myself to speak, my voice shaking. “The cops are on their way,” I blurted, desperate to say something that would scare them off. “You should leave now if you don’t want to get caught.” The man’s lips curled into a wide, menacing grin. Around him, the other men chuckled darkly. It was clear they weren’t taking me seriously. “This is going to be fun,” the seated man said in a deep, rumbling baritone. Then his tone shifted, sharp and commanding. “Get her a seat.” Before I could react, two of the men moved toward me. My pulse quickened as dread pooled in my stomach. Whatever they were planning, I knew it wasn’t good.