Crashed by a Rolls-Royce, I Sent Him Straight to Hell

I began to chant the calming incantation, trying to ease the spirit’s fury.

Tony Moretti, however, had grabbed a steel pipe and started smashing my car.

“You still putting on an act? I’ll smash your ride to pieces!”

Dozens of swings later, the only mark on my car was a faint scratch.

The scene should have unnerved him—but instead, he grew more frenzied.

He gunned his Phantom, ramming it straight into my driver’s side.

The impact spun my world. Even with spiritual protection, the door crumpled inward.

If I’d been in an ordinary sedan, I’d be crippled—if not dead.

I staggered out, testing my limbs. Just numbness in my leg—nothing fatal.

Tony stepped out grinning, gold teeth flashing, then lazily rolled down his window.

“You dare dent my car? I’ll run you down myself!”

My anger finally snapped. I charged at him with clenched fists—only to stumble and collapse before reaching him.

Pain seared my ankle. Blood seeped down. Must’ve been cut earlier.

The crowd of onlookers rushed to call an ambulance. But Vince leaned on the horn and roared:

“Anyone who helps him is crossing Tony Moretti. Think carefully!”

At once, the phones lowered. Silence.

Tony swaggered toward me.

“Where’s that tough guy act now, kid? Crawling on the ground already?”

I glared up at him through gritted teeth.

“You just tried to run me over, Tony. You really aren’t afraid of death, are you?”

He smirked.

“So what if I did? I’ll break your legs next—leave you crawling forever.”

I pointed at the traffic camera overhead.

“There’s surveillance here. Everything you just did was recorded. Let’s see what the police say.”

Tony burst out laughing.

“Surveillance? This street’s mine. One call and the footage is gone.”

He dialed.

“Yeah, it’s Tony. Wipe all tonight’s feeds on 18th Street.”

The woman draped on his arm smirked down at me.

“See? The evidence is gone. Go ahead, prove my man ran you over.”

She tossed her hair, sneering.

“We told you to take the payout. Instead you crossed Tony Moretti. Now look at you. Next time, open your eyes—his car isn’t one just anyone can touch.”

I’d grown up reckless, never knowing when to back down.

At eighteen, I became a psychopomp, dealing with death daily.

I’d never learned the rules of the living world—or how to bow my head.