Chapter 2: The Men in the Kitchen
The bookie's men spread through the kitchen like wolves scenting blood.
Tanner stumbled backward, hands raised.
"I have the money," he stammered. "Just give me another day."
The leader, a bald man named Rocco, swung his bat against the kitchen table again.
The wood cracked.
"No more days."
Tanner pointed frantically toward the cellar hatch.
"My wife has access to accounts. She's getting it."
Below them, I listened carefully.
Every word.
Every lie.
My stomach cramped again, but I forced myself to focus.
Through a small emergency vent, I could hear everything.
Rocco glanced toward the cellar.
"Your wife?"
Tanner nodded.
"She's handling the transfer."
I almost laughed.
Handling the transfer?
Ten minutes earlier, he had tried to bury me alive.
Then something unexpected happened.
One of the men opened a folder.
"Boss," he said quietly.
Rocco took the papers.
His face darkened.
"These bank statements?"
"Yeah."
"Tanner owes us twelve grand."
The man shook his head.
"No. Look closer."
Silence.
Then Rocco looked up slowly.
"You stole from your pregnant wife?"
Tanner froze.
Nobody spoke.
Even criminals had rules.
And hurting women and children was one of the fastest ways to lose respect.
Tanner swallowed.
"It wasn't like that."
"It looks exactly like that."
The room grew dangerously quiet.
Then the front door opened.
A new voice entered.
May you like
"Police."
Everything stopped.
