a.My Stepfamily Sold Me to a Mafia Boss for $50,000—Then His Security Camera Put Them in Prison...

The room was pitch black except for the glowing blue monitors lining the wall of Gabriel’s private sanctuary in the east wing.

It was my first time crossing the threshold past the biometric scanner. Gabriel stood behind me, his hand resting lightly against his wounded ribs, his heat radiating through his black silk robe.

“This is the internal feed from the Golden Room’s high-roller vault,” Gabriel said, clicking a mouse. “Recorded twenty-four hours a day, stored on an offshore server no one in this city can touch.”

The screen flickered.

The timestamp read June 14th, 2:14 AM—exactly six days before my father died in the hospital.

On the screen, my stepmother Diane was sitting across from a man in a tailored pinstripe suit whose face was partially obscured by shadow. Beside Diane sat my stepsister Chloe, dressed in a designer silk blouse I recognized—it was bought using money meant for my father’s heart medication.

“Zoom in on the table,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Gabriel pulled the camera frame closer.

On the glass table sat three documents. One was my father’s power of attorney form. The second was a life insurance beneficiary change form.

And the third was my father’s medical chart from the intensive care unit.

I watched as Diane signed my father’s name on the beneficiary line with practiced ease. Chloe laughed on the video, taking a sip of champagne, while the man across from them stamped the document with an official notary seal.

“Who is that man?” I asked, my knuckles turning white against the edge of the desk.

“Nicholas Marcone,” Gabriel said softly. “Underboss of the eastern district and my primary competitor in the harbor expansion. He’s been using your stepmother’s gambling addiction to forge property deeds across the docks.”

“They forged his signature while he was in a coma,” I choked out, a wave of nauseating grief washing over me. “They let him die in that ward, pretending they couldn't afford the experimental treatment, while they were already spending his death money.”

Gabriel didn't offer empty words of comfort. He didn't pat my shoulder or tell me everything would be fine. Instead, he reached past me and opened a side drawer, pulling out a heavy glass tumbler and pouring two fingers of amber bourbon.

He slid the glass into my hand.

“Drink,” he commanded softly.

I swallowed the liquor in one burning gulp. The heat spread through my chest, chasing away the icy numbness that had settled into my bones.

“Why are you showing me this, Gabriel?” I asked, looking up at his sharp profile. “You’re a criminal. You run this city's underworld. Why do you care if a bitter suburban woman stole from her stepdaughter?”

Gabriel turned to face me. The monitors reflected in his gray eyes, making him look like something sculpted from winter ice.

“Because I hate sloppy thieves,” he said calmly. “And because your stepmother didn't just steal your money, Nora. She brought Marcone into my territory. She thought she could play both sides of a mob war and walk away clean with your father’s legacy.”

“What are you going to do to them?”

Gabriel leaned over me, his hand coming up to rest on the back of my chair, trapping me in his shadow.

“The question isn't what I am going to do, Nora,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly across the corner of my lower lip, right where the scar from my split lip had healed into a thin pink line. “The question is what you want done to them.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“I want them to lose everything,” I whispered, the words coming from a place deep inside me that had been buried under years of abuse and silence. “I want them to feel as hopeless, as naked, and as terrified as I was when they threw me into that rain.”