They Regretted Firing Me

Overnight, our front operation became the internet's public enemy number one.

The family name, my corporate profile, and even a snapshot of me volunteering at a local orphanage were plastered across every radical online forum—recontextualized to make me look like a cynical monster laundering blood money through children.

My secure channels and personal inboxes were drowning in sheer malice. Internet vigilantes called me a blood-sucking mob monster, praying for the feds to dismantle our entire syndicate before the new year.

My head of PR, looking like she’d been dragged out of an interrogation room, slid a thick folder onto my desk.

"Victoria, we need to put out a statement right now. We disclose the ten-coin gold bullion distribution policy, attach verified, anonymized vault transaction logs. We can kill this story."

I rubbed my temples, staring at the paperwork.

"And the second we publish those private ledger entries," I countered, looking up at her, "does it look like an honest defense? Or does it look like a cornered cartel scrambling to hide its tracks from a grand jury?"

She froze, slowly closing the folder. She knew exactly what kind of legal suicide that would be.

I used to believe our absolute loyalty would protect us. I thought the crew valued the immunity my shadow empire gave them.

I was a fool.

I pulled up X and refreshed the thread. A brand-new anonymous post had been pinned right to the top of the feed by a burner account.

【LMAO nice try with the corporate spin. I work in the Romano logistics warehouse. Nobody has ever seen a single gold coin. The family is broke and hoarding cash, we just wanted a standard Thanksgiving dinner and this bitch treats us like sweatshop slaves.】

The post was gaining traction by the second. Beneath it, a wave of other "insiders" jumped on the bandwagon.

"Agreed, can confirm. The whole gold story is a total myth."

"The boss lady is so stingy, last year's performance bonus was literally a handful of loose ammunition and expired rations from the safehouse."

The smear campaign was spreading faster than my tech team could trace the IPs.

I stared at that pinned lie. I couldn't prove the exact keyboard it came from, but it could have been anyone on my payroll. That was the point of no return. If Beatrice lit the fuse, my own soldiers were the ones dumping rocket fuel on the flames.

Vivid memories flashed through my mind. Splitting cold takeout on a concrete floor during our first multi-million dollar federal raid. Buying out a luxury nightclub cash-in-hand to celebrate a foreman's ten-year milestone. Smuggling an entire family out of the country when a turf war got too close, paying their expenses for six months.

I had never, not once, shorted a single soul who bled for this syndicate.

And my reward was an entire crew lining up to take a free swing at my back. They happily cashed my untraceable wealth and slept soundly under my muscle, then happily pulled the trigger when they thought I was vulnerable. The "loyal family" I prided myself on running was nothing but a pack of wolves waiting for a weakness.

My PR manager was practically shaking. "Victoria, if we don't drop a counter-narrative in the next thirty minutes, the brand is completely dead."

I flicked her crisis document off the edge of the desk.

"Let it burn."

My voice didn't even shake.

"We aren't explaining a damn thing to these civilians. Draft a mandatory internal directive instead."

My assistant, hovering by the doorframe, looked absolutely terrified. "Boss... are you certain? If the public sees a cold mandate, won't they just—"

"Write it," I commanded, shutting her down.

I stood up, stepping over to the heavy glass windows overlooking the loading docks. A media crew was already setting up a tripod outside our perimeter fence.

A dark smile touched my lips. I didn't get outplayed by an intern. I got blinded by my own naive belief that honor still meant something in this racket.

From this moment on, Victoria Romano was done playing the benevolent matriarch. I was just the ruthless executive running the cartel.

I slammed my thumb down on the intercom.

"Listen up. Mandatory assembly tomorrow morning, 8 AM sharp, in the main shipping bay. The sole agenda is the final, irreversible settlement of this year's holiday distribution."

A heavy, breathless silence hung over the line before my assistant managed a shaky response.

"Boss... are we... settling their demands?"

"No."

I stared down at the media vans blocking my trucks, my tone turning as sharp and unforgiving as a switchblade.

"We're cleaning house."