Trapped By The Mafia Boss

Jasmine Weaver tightened the thin collar of the secondhand trench coat, wrapping it even tighter. The Brooklyn wind pierced straight through cheap fabric, a damp, bone-chilling chill seeping into the bone.

She knew that this shortcut through the abandoned industrial park was a bad idea. But the twelve-hour shift left her feet sore unbearably—a deep, pulsating pain that spread from her worn-out sneakers all the way to her calves. Just thinking about having to circle around for another twenty minutes to get home felt like a marathon. She only wanted the uneven mattress in her trailer.

A piercing tire screech shattered the silence of the night.

Instinctive, sharp and cold, took over her. Jasmine suddenly lunged into the deep shadows of a rusty shipping container, her heart pounding hard against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her back pressed tightly against the corrugated metal plate, cold seeping through her coat, and she held her breath.

She took a risky glance and peeked around the edge of the container.

Three black unlicensed Chevrolet Saaban braked suddenly and stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse. The engine spun idly, roaring low, threatening through the originally dead air. This scene sent a pure rush of adrenaline through her weary body, making her tremble all over.

Men in dark suits filed out one after another, moving smoothly and efficiently, making them chilling to watch. They drew pistols with silencers, their eyes scanning the darkness, maintaining professional composure to secure the area.

The door of the car in the middle opened.

A man stepped forward. He was tall, his figure outlined by a perfectly tailored suit—that outfit might have earned her more in a year. Even from a distance, under a flickering, dim streetlight, he still radiates an absolute, chilling authority.

That was Broderick Lancaster.

Her stomach tightened. She had seen his face in newspapers and in the news—heir to the Lancaster family's wealth, someone who moved between the Wall Street board and the urban criminal underworld, equally relaxed and equally terrifying.

His two men—who later learned their names were Tate and Cole—opened the trunk of one of the SUVs. They dragged out a heavy burlap sack. The bag wasn't just heavy—it slumped down. A dark red liquid, black in the dim light, seeps from the rough fabric and slowly and rhythmically drips onto cracked concrete.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Broderick reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He held a cigarette between his lips, his movements casual but fixed on the bag, unmoved by the bloodstains. He didn't even flinch.

Tate and Cole dragged the bag—it twitched faintly, creepily—to the edge of a huge open barrel. The surrounding air flickered with chemical smoke, thick with sour and rotten odors. With a coordinated muffled groan, they tossed the bag over the rim of the bucket.

The sound of falling into the water is a muffled, nauseating noise—the sound of being swallowed by the thick, sticky liquid in the barrel.

Jasmine covered her mouth with her hand, bile rushing up her throat. She almost threw up the greasy hot dog she had for dinner. She kept her eyes tightly shut, but the scene was already etched behind her eyelids.

A crisp click.

She opened her eyes.

Broderick flicked open a metal lighter. A small blue flame ignited, making his face stand out sharply—a brutally handsome face, full of sharp edges and cold perfection, like a fallen angel sculpted from ice. In that instant, the flames illuminated the utterly inhuman hollow in his eyes.

A gasp stuck in her throat. Her brain isn't just alarming—it's screaming, a primal, deafening alarm of pure fear. and fled.

She had to leave there. Now.

Panic pushed her back. Her foot stepped on something hard.

A beer bottle left behind by a homeless man shattered under her weight.

That sound—a sharp, crisp crack—echoed through the industrial cemetery. It sounded unbelievable, like a gunshot in a library.

Broderick's hand holding the lighter and lighting the cigarette froze.

His head suddenly turned in her direction. His eyes, sharp and cold like eagles, pierced through the darkness and locked onto the container where she was hiding.

He leisurely took a drag of the already lit cigarette, the tip glowing red, like the eyes of a demon. As he spoke, a wisp of smoke curled up from his lips. His voice was low and calm, without a trace of warmth.

"Catch that mouse."

The order is simple. A death sentence.