“Look, I’m not the guy in charge. My boss just tells me who owes him money and I go get it for him. Simple,” I explain through an exhale of cigarette smoke. “He doesn’t like to, y’know…get his hands dirty,”

I hold back a smirk at the terrified sounds that only increase from the couple tied up in front of me, held down on the floor of their basement by two of my guys.

I’m not the boss of this mafia, by any means. But you could say I’m my boss’ second in command, of sorts. He calls the shots; I just execute them.

Sometimes in a literal sense.

This is one of the standard situations: People owe money, they try to flee thinking they can get away with it, they obviously get caught, and are adamant they don’t have the damn money. Typical.

“So what am I supposed to do with no money, hm?” I ask, my voice low as I take a few steps closer to them. “What else do you have to offer me that’s as valuable as money? Better come up with a fuckin’ miracle. Quickly,”