My Mother Sold Me to Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss for a $2 Million Payout—Then He Asked Me One Question She Never Had

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I walked down the long, dim hallway to Marco's office. The door was slightly open, a warm strip of light spilling across the wooden floorboards.

I pushed the door open gently. Marco was sitting at his desk, reviewing a stack of financial ledgers under the soft glow of a green banker's lamp. He looked up the moment my shadow crossed the threshold.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"I keep remembering the tea," I said, stepping into the room and pulling my wool sweater tight around myself.

Marco set his pen down. "What tea?"

"When I was sixteen, she used to bring me a cup of chamomile tea every night before bed," I whispered, sitting on the small leather sofa across from his desk. "It tasted bitter, like copper. I told her I didn't like it. She smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, 'Drink it for Mommy, Jane. It keeps the bad feelings away.'"

I swallowed, the memory sharp and bitter in my mouth.

"The next morning, I couldn't move my legs. I spent three weeks in a wheelchair. She held a press conference in our living room and raised two hundred thousand dollars for pediatric neurology research."

Marco stared at me, his dark eyes burning with an intense, quiet fury that made the room feel smaller.

"She made you suffer so she could feel important," he said quietly.

"She made me suffer because she loved the audience," I corrected him. "She doesn't care about money, Marco. Not really. Money is just how she buys the stage."