Trapped By The Ruthless 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.

His men immediately raised their weapons, spreading out in a skilled tactical formation and advancing toward her position.

Adrenaline rushed into Jasmine's veins—a blazing chemical flame that burned away her exhaustion. She suddenly turned and ran. She rushes into a maze made of decaying machinery and rusted steel beams, her only thought being to keep her distance.

A soft "puff" came from behind.

Sparks flew from a metal barrel just inches above her head. It was a silencing gunshot. They weren't trying to scare her.

Another "puff."

A wooden box beside her exploded, and wood chips flew through the air. A sharp sting sliced across her cheek. She reached out and touched it, and her fingers were stained with wet, sticky blood—her own blood.

She didn't slow down. She weaves through the industrial maze, her body moving with a desperate agility she never realized, covered by wreckage.

"Damn it." She heard one of the men—Tate—cursing into the walkie-talkie. "She runs so fast."

The footsteps behind her grew louder and more urgent.

Another gunshot rang out.

A scorching, tearing pain exploded in her left shoulder. The impact was like being struck by a sledgehammer—it threw her forward, her feet off the ground, and she crashed heavily onto the gravel ground.

The pain was like a dazzling white light, almost completely engulfing her and dragging her into unconsciousness. She bit her lip, tasting the blood, and suppressed that throat-tearing scream.

She couldn't stop. Stopping means death.

The footsteps grew closer and closer. She struggled to stand, her left arm hanging weakly at her side. In front of them was a tall barbed wire fence, its top covered in rust. There's no time to take detours.

She didn't think much and lunged at it. She picked at the wire with her fingers and climbed upward; the rusty metal tore at her palm, her fingers screaming in protest. The pain in his shoulder was like a blazing flame.

She threw herself over the top and fell heavily to the other side. It didn't fall on concrete—but on something soft, damp, and foul-smelling.

A drainage ditch. A sewer overflow.

She rolled around, letting inertia carry her into a narrow ditch, plunging her body into the cold, foul-smelling water. The cold made her shiver, but what saved her was darkness—absolute darkness.

She pressed against the slippery concrete wall, submerging herself in the water, leaving only her nose and mouth above the surface.

Heavy footsteps stopped by the fence line above her. The bright beam of a powerful flashlight sliced through the darkness, sweeping back and forth across the black water. Light swept over her head, once, twice. They saw nothing.

Then, another group of footsteps approached—slower, more composed. It was the sound of expensive handmade leather shoes stepping on gravel.

Broderick.

He stood by the fence, his tall, dark silhouette set against the sickly yellow glow of the city sky. He gazed down at the ditch, his gaze sweeping over the exact spot where she was hiding. She could feel his gaze on her—even in the dark, a predator could sense its prey.

His gaze shifted to the ground near the fence. There was a small dark red bloodstain there that she had left on the concrete.

He said nothing, just took out his phone and dialed a number.

His voice was like a cold blade, cutting through the night sky.

"Seal off every underground clinic in the five administrative districts. Check the pharmacy. Give me a list of people who buy suture kits or strong antibiotics without a prescription. Turn this city upside down—I want to find her. ”

He paused.

"After finding her, bring her to me. Alive. ”

In the cold, filthy water, hiding just a few feet beneath the feet of the person who had just signed her death sentence, Jasmine Weaver closed her eyes. A tear of despair slid down her dirt-covered cheeks and disappeared into the darkness of the drain.