“Don't Be Afraid… I'm Here,” Poor Waitress Said — She Took a Hit For The Mafia Boss's Sister

The cold drizzle at the South Boston shipping pier smelled of brine, diesel fuel, and rusted steel.

Inside the cavernous, unlit interior of Warehouse 4, Gerald Moss was strapped to a wooden chair beneath a single swinging halogen bulb. His tailored suit was covered in grease, his expensive hair disheveled, his knees trembling so violently that the chair legs clattered against the damp concrete.

The warehouse door rolled up with a deafening metallic screech.

Rafe walked in, flanked by Dante and four armed men. Rafe wore a dark cashmere overcoat that flared behind him like wings. He didn't carry a weapon. He didn't need one.

"M-Mr. Collazo!" Moss squealed, thrashing against the ropes. "This is a misunderstanding! I swear to God! I was just going to the North End for dinner! I didn't know Moretti owned that restaurant!"

Rafe stopped two feet in front of the chair. He looked down at Moss with the clinical detachment of an exterminator observing a cockroach.

"You took twenty thousand dollars from Moretti's lieutenant three weeks ago, Gerald," Rafe said, his voice silky and quiet. "In exchange, you hired an operative named Marcus Webb as an extra banquet server at Salt Line. You gave him the schedule. You told him which table my sister had reserved."

Moss’s face drained of what little color remained. "No... no, they told me it was just corporate espionage! They said they were just going to take pictures of your documents!"

"He brought a steel baton to crush a nineteen-year-old girl’s skull," Rafe said softly. "And when Mave Donovan intervened, you threatened to dock her wages for breaking dishes."

Moss began to weep, tears and snot running down his cheeks. "Please! I have a family! I'll leave the state! I'll leave the country!"

Rafe tilted his head. "Mave Donovan has a family, too. A brother with a failing heart. She worked eighty hours a week between two jobs to keep him alive, while you stole from her tips and humiliated her in front of strangers."

Rafe signaled slightly with his finger.

Dante stepped forward and placed a heavy metal briefcase on a nearby oil drum, snapping the latches open. Inside lay thick stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills.

"This is one hundred thousand dollars, Gerald," Rafe said.

Moss blinked through his tears, confusion mixing with terrified hope. "You're... you're paying me?"

"No," Rafe said, cold amusement touching his lips. "This is the money you are officially donating to the Boston Children’s Hospital Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. You are going to sign a confession detailing every dollar you took from Vincenzo Moretti, every tax evasion scheme you ran through Salt Line, and every harbor kickback you orchestrated."

Rafe leaned down, his face inches from Moss’s trembling features.

"If you sign it, you go to federal prison for ten years. You will live in a concrete cell, but you will live."

"And... and if I don't?" Moss whimpered.

Rafe straightened his coat. "If you don't, Dante will put you in a weighted steel drum and drop you three miles past Boston Light. Choose now."

Ten seconds later, Moss was frantically scribbling his signature on the confession document with shaking, bleeding fingers.

Rafe turned toward Dante without looking back. "Deliver the documents to the United States Attorney’s office. Coordinate with our tactical teams at the docks. Moretti thinks he is going to hit my logistics hub at midnight. I want his entire network dismantled before sunrise. No survivors in the leadership."

"Understood, boss," Dante nodded. "And young Finn’s surgery?"