Can You Come Get Me Obese Waitress Calls The Mafia Boss After Her Ex Breaks Her Arm

Can You Come Get Me Obese Waitress Calls The Mafia Boss After Her Ex Breaks Her Arm

The sickening snap of her bone echoed louder than the thunder rattling the windows. Curled on the cheap lenolium, clutching her shattered arm, Scarlet bled from a split lip. Her ex had taken her money and left her for dead. With trembling, bloodstained fingers, she dialed the one man she knew could bury him.

 The neon sign outside Omali’s diner buzzed with a relentless annoying hum, casting a sickly red glow over the damp Boston pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale coffee, frier grease, and quiet desperation. Scarlet Miller adjusted her stained apron, wincing as the rough fabric dug into the soft, heavy flesh of her waist.

At 26, Scarlet was pushing 280 lb. She knew what people saw when they looked at her, or rather, how they looked right through her. To the late night drunks and weary truckers, she was just a fixture of the diner, a heavy, invisible workhorse who kept the coffee hot and the pie slices generous. Her feet throbbed in her worn out sneakers.

 The graveyard shift was brutal on her joints, but it paid the bills, and more importantly, it paid for Trevor. Trevor Hayes was a bartender at a dive club three blocks away. He was conventionally handsome with sharp jaw lines and a smooth, manipulative smile that had swept Scarlet off her feet two years ago.

 Back then, he told her she was beautiful, that her curves were perfect. But as the months dragged into years, the compliments rotted into cruel, calculated insults. He moved into her cramped one-bedroom apartment, quit his job, and started bleeding her dry. Whenever she tried to leave, he would corner her, his breath wreaking of cheap whiskey, and whisper, “Look in the mirror, Scarlet.

 You’re a fat, pathetic mess. Who else is ever going to want you?” She believed him. The trauma and the constant belittling only fueled her stress eating. A vicious cycle that left her trapped in her own body and her own home. But at Homales, from midnight to 8:00 a.m., Scarlet had control. And it was here that she met Sebastian Falconee.

 Sebastian didn’t look like the other patrons. He didn’t wear trucker hats or stained denim. He wore customtailored Italian wool suits that cost more than Scarlet made in 3 years. He was the head of the Falconee crime syndicate, a man whose name was whispered with a mix of reverence and sheer terror in the city’s underground. He was ruthless, cold, and possessed a violent streak that kept the rival Irish and Russian families entirely out of his territory.

 The first time Sebastian walked into the diner, it was 3:15 a.m. It was raining sideways. He had blood spattered across the crisp white cuff of his shirt. The two other waitresses on shift immediately fled to the back room, terrified. The lone line cook ducked below the grill. Scarlet, exhausted and numb, had simply sighed. She picked up a fresh pot of dark roast, waddled out from behind the counter and walked over to the corner booth where the mafia boss had seated himself.

“Rough night?” she asked, her voice soft but steady. Sebastian looked up. His eyes were a piercing icy gray, completely devoid of warmth. He stared at her, assessing her. Most people trembled under that gaze. Scarlet just poured the coffee. “You could say that,” Sebastian rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.

 “Cherry pie,” she offered, not missing a beat. “It’s fresh. Might help with Whatever that is, she vaguely gestured toward the blood on his cuff. A ghost of a smirk played on Sebastian’s lips. Yeah, bring the pie. That was the beginning. For 6 months, Sebastian Falconee became a regular. He came in twice a week, always between 3 and 4 a.m.

He never brought his bodyguards inside. They waited in the idling black SUVs across the street. Scarlet always served him. She didn’t treat him like a monster, and in return, he didn’t treat her like she was invisible. He looked her in the eye. He asked about her day. He never made a single derogatory comment about her weight.

 In fact, he often demanded she sit in the booth across from him while he ate, sharing the quiet solitude of the early morning. Sebastian was highly observant. A predator always is. He noticed the days Scarlet’s eyes were red from crying. He noticed the heavy foundation she used to cover the fading yellowish purple bruises on her jaw.

 He noticed the way she flinched when the diner door opened too fast. One freezing November night, Sebastian slid a sleek matte black card across the formica table. There was no name on it, only a single silver embossed phone number. Take it, Sebastian commanded softly. Scarlet stared at the card, hesitant. What’s this? An insurance policy? Sebastian said, taking a slow sip of his black coffee.

 his icy eyes locked onto hers, reading the deep-seated fear she tried so hard to bury. “You’re a good woman, Scarlet. Better than the scum that breathes the air in this city. If you ever find yourself in a situation you can’t handle, the kind of situation the police can’t fix, you call that number, day or night.” Scarlet had tucked the card into her bra, thanked him, and went back to wiping down the counters. She never intended to use it.

She was just a fat, invisible waitress. A man like Sebastian Falconee didn’t really care about her. It was just a fleeting kindness. She couldn’t have been more wrong. It was a Tuesday morning shortly after 900 a.m. The sky over Boston was a bruised heavy purple, weeping a freezing drizzle, Scarlet unlocked the door to her apartment, her body aching with a bone deep exhaustion, she kicked off her damp sneakers, wincing as her swollen feet protested the sudden lack of support.

All she wanted was a hot shower and her bed. Where the hell have you been? Scarlet jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. Trevor was sitting on the sagging living room sofa. He looked entirely unhinged. His hair was greasy and matted. His pupils were dilated, and he was sweating despite the chill in the apartment. “I I was at work, Trevor.

” “Like always,” Scarlet stammered, clutching her purse tightly to her chest. Trevor stood up, kicking the coffee table out of the way. Empty beer cans clattered onto the hardwood floor. “Don’t lie to me, you fat Your shift ended at 8. It’s 9:15.” “The bus was late,” she whispered, backing toward the front door.

 “Trevor, what’s going on? Are you high?” “I need money,” he snarled, advancing on her. “Now three grand. I know you have it stashed in this stump. Scarlet’s blood ran cold. She had exactly $3,200 hidden in a hollowedout oatmeal canister in the back of the pantry. It was her escape fund. She had been saving5 and $10 bills from her tips for over a year, starving herself on breaks just to put a little extra away.

It was her only ticket out of this hell. “I don’t have any money,” Scarlet lied, her voice trembling. “I gave you my last paycheck for rent.” Trevor lunged, grabbing her by the collar of her winter coat and slamming her hard against the front door. The deadbolt dug painfully into her spine.

 “Don’t play games with me, Scarlet,” he screamed, spit flying into her face. “I owe Ricky’s crew. If I don’t pay them by noon, they’re going to break my legs. Give me the money. No, Scarlet yelled back, a sudden, desperate fire igniting in her chest. For the first time in 2 years, she pushed back, shoving her heavy frame against him.

Trevor staggered backward, shocked by her resistance. It’s mine. You’ve taken everything from me. Get out. Trevor’s shock quickly morphed into pure murderous rage. “You think you can say no to me?” He laughed, a hysterical, ugly sound. “Look at you. You’re a disgusting, sweaty whale. You should be on your knees, thanking God that I even look at you. You owe me.

” He charged her. Scarlet tried to run towards the kitchen, her heavy footsteps thudding against the floorboards, but Trevor was faster. He grabbed her left arm, yanking her backward with brutal force. Scarlet lost her balance, her heavy body twisting awkwardly. Trevor didn’t let go.

 With a vicious snarl, he planted his foot against the back of her knee, forcing her to the ground and wrenched her arm sharply behind her back, pulling it up toward her neck. “Where is it?” he roared. Please, Trevor, you’re hurting me, Scarlet sobbed, the pain shooting through her shoulder like liquid fire. Tell me where the money is, or I swear to God I’ll pop this socket out.

 In the pantry, she screamed, the agony too much to bear. The oatmeal canister. Just let me go. Trevor smiled. It was a cold, dead expression. Thanks, babe. Instead of letting go, he yanked her arm upward one last time, violently twisting her wrist outward with all his body weight. Snap! The sound was sickening.

 A wet, loud crack that echoed off the bare walls of the apartment. Scarlet’s vision went entirely white. A scream ripped from her throat, tearing her vocal cords as blinding, unimaginable agony exploded from her forearm, her radius and ulna had snapped completely, the bone pushing dangerously hard against the skin, deforming her arm into a gruesome, unnatural angle.

 Trevor dropped her. Scarlet collapsed onto the lenolium floor, convulsing as shock instantly set in. She gasped for air, but her lungs refused to work. The pain was an ocean drowning her. She heard the pantry door open. She heard the rattle of the tin canister. “Stupid cow!” Trevor muttered. He walked back into the living room, a thick wad of her hard-earned cash clutched in his fist.

 He looked down at her, writhing on the floor, weeping in a puddle of her own saliva and blood from where she had bitten her lip. He didn’t show a single ounce of remorse. He pulled back his boot and kicked her viciously in the ribs. Scarlet choked, curling into a tight, miserable ball as Trevor stepped over her, unlocked the front door, and walked out, slamming it behind him.

Silence descended on the apartment, broken only by Scarlet’s ragged, wet gasps. She lay there for what felt like hours, the freezing cold creeping into her bones. Her arm was swelling rapidly, the skin turning a horrific shade of purple and black. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of torture through her limb.

She knew she needed an ambulance. She needed the police. But as she lay there, clarity pierced through the haze of agony. If she called the cops, Trevor would find out. He would bond out and he would come back to finish the job. The police couldn’t protect her. They never protected women like her. She slowly dragged herself across the floor, leaving a faint smear of blood from her lip on the lenolium.

Using her good arm, she reached her purse, which had spilled near the sofa. Her trembling, numb fingers dug past her wallet and her keys until she felt the stiff, matte edge of the business card. She pulled her cell phone out. Her hands were shaking so violently she dropped it twice.

 She managed to unlock the screen, smearing blood across the glass. She typed in the silver numbers from the black card. It rang once, twice. Speak. A deep grally voice answered. It wasn’t an assistant. It was him. Scarlet choked on a sob, her chest heaving. Mr. Falconee. A pause. The ambient background noise on the other end of the line instantly went dead quiet.

Scarlet. Sebastian’s voice changed, the coldness vanishing, replaced by a razor sharp intensity. It’s It’s Scarlet from the diner, she whimpered, tears cascading down her flushed, swollen cheeks. Her vision was starting to tunnel. “You said you gave me a card. Are you hurt?” The question wasn’t a casual inquiry.

 It was a demand for intelligence. My arm. He broke my arm. He took my money. I can’t move. She squeezed her eyes shut. Can you Can you come get me? The silence on the line was heavier than a tomb. When Sebastian finally spoke, his voice was so low, so terrifyingly calm that it made the hairs on the back of Scarlet’s neck stand up despite her pain.

“Give me your address.” She choked it out. “Am 4, B 812 Elm Street. Stay awake, Scarlet. I am 5 minutes away. Do not hang up the phone. He might come back, she cried out softly. Let him, Sebastian whispered, the promise of absolute violence dripping from the two words. I pray to God he does.

 The heavy wooden door of Scarlet’s apartment didn’t just open. It exploded inward. The frame splintered, raining cheap pine shards and drywall dust over the scuffed lenolium. Scarlet’s eyelids fluttered, heavy and sluggish. The metallic tang of her own blood coated her tongue, mixing with the stale, sour smell of spilled beer that Trevor had left behind.

Through the tunneling blackness of her vision, a massive shadow filled the doorway. Sebastian Falconee stepped into the cramped, freezing apartment. The subtle, expensive scent of sandalwood, sharp winter air, and the faint, harsh bite of gunpowder instantly overpowered the stench of the room.

 Behind him stood two massive men in tailored dark suits, but Sebastian waved them back with a sharp flick of his wrist. He crossed the room in three massive strides, and dropped to his knees right in the puddle of Scarlet’s blood. The crisp pressed wool of his charcoal suit soaked up the crimson stain, but he didn’t even glance at it.

 His icy gray eyes, usually so devoid of human emotion, were completely wild as they locked onto her mangled arm. “Scarlet,” he breathed, his voice a low, grally rumble that sent a strange, comforting vibration through the floorboards. You came,” she whimpered, her voice barely a scratchy whisper. The internal contradiction tore at her.

 She was deeply humiliated that this powerful, immaculately dressed man was seeing her like this. A heavy, sweaty, pathetic mess on a dirty floor. Yet a profound, undeniable wave of safety washed over her. “I told you I would,” Sebastian said softly. He stripped off his heavy cashmere overcoat. Leo, secure the perimeter. Victor, help me carefully.

Victor, a giant of a man with a scarred jaw, stepped forward. Scarlet panicked, her breath hitching. “I’m too heavy,” she gasped out, a hot tear sliding down her cheek, leaving a clean streak through the dirt. “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourselves. Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her cold forehead.

 You are exactly as you are meant to be. Do not ever apologize for existing in my presence. Do you understand me? Before she could process the weight of his words, Sebastian slid his strong arms under her shoulders, avoiding her broken limb entirely, while Victor supported her lower half. They lifted her 280 lb frame with an effortless synchronized grace that left Scarlet entirely speechless.

She felt light. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a burden. They carried her down the narrow stairwell and out into the freezing drizzle. A fleet of three black Cadillac Escalades sat idling by the curb, blocking the narrow Boston street. Sebastian climbed into the back of the center SUV, pulling Scarlet gently across his lap.

 The leather seats were butter soft, radiating a soothing heat that combed her violent shivering. “Mass General?” Victor asked from the driver’s seat. “No,” Sebastian snapped, his fingers gently brushing the matted, damp hair away from Scarlet’s face. The police will ask questions she doesn’t need to answer right now. Take us to Dr.

Pendleton’s private clinic in Beacon Hill. Call ahead. Tell him to clear the floor. The ride was a blur of neon lights streaking across the tinted windows and the rhythmic steady thud of Sebastian’s heart beneath Scarlet’s ear. When they arrived at the discrete, unmarked brick building in Beacon Hill, Dr.

 Arthur Pendleton and two nurses were already waiting in the subterranean garage with a reinforced gurnie. The clinic smelled intensely of iodine, bleached cotton, and sterile steel. In the trauma room, a nurse began to cut away Scarlet’s bloodstained winter coat and her uniform. Scarlet tried to curl inward, the deepseated shame of her rolls and heavy thighs rushing to the surface.

She expected Sebastian to leave, to turn away in disgust now that the harsh fluorescent lights exposed every floor her ex had ever mocked. Instead, Sebastian stood at the head of her bed. He took her uninjured right hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles over her knuckles.

 He didn’t look at her body with pity or disgust. He looked at her face with a burning absolute reverence. Tell me his name,” [clears throat] Sebastian murmured. As Dr. Pendleton injected a heavy dose of morphine into Scarlet’s IV line, the warmth of the drug began to flood her veins, dulling the sharp, screaming agony of her shattered radius.

 “Trevor,” she slurred, her eyelids drooping. “Trevor Hayes.” Sebastian’s thumb stopped moving. The bartender at the rusty anchor. Scarlet nodded. weekly. He took my money, [clears throat] $3,000. He said he said he owed Ricky Gallagher’s crew. He said they’d break his legs. A suffocating, terrifying silence filled the trauma room.

 The air pressure seemed to physically drop. Dr. Pendleton swallowed hard, avoiding Sebastian’s gaze as he prepared the fiberglass cast. Sebastian’s eyes turned entirely black. The pieces clicked together with horrifying precision. Ricky Gallagher was a mid-level street boss in the South Boston territory. Ricky Gallagher worked for Leo, and Leo worked for Sebastian.

 Trevor Hayes had nearly killed the woman Sebastian cared for, stealing her life savings just to pay a debt to Sebastian’s own crime family. The money Trevor stole was destined for Sebastian’s own vault. “Sleep, Mia Cara,” Sebastian whispered, leaning down to press his lips softly against her forehead. The contrast of his gentle touch against the sheer unadulterated violence radiating from his aura was dizzying.

 “When you wake up, the world will be entirely different.” As Scarlet slipped into the dark, comforting embrace of the anesthesia, she heard the heavy definitive thud of Sebastian’s boots leaving the room. The back room of the Emerald Room Lounge in Souy smelled of stale cigar smoke, spilled bourbon and sweat.

 Richard Ricky Gallagher sat behind a sticky mahogany desk, counting stacks of 20s. The heavy steel door creaked open and Trevor Hayes stumbled inside. He looked manic, his eyes darting around the dim room, clutching a brown paper bag tightly to his chest. Ricky man, I got it. Trevor panted, rushing to the desk. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the wood.

 A cascade of crumpled four and $10 bills, some stained with faint smudges of scarlet’s blood, spilled out. Three grand plus the vig. We’re square, right? You tell your guys to back off. Ricky Gallagher stared at the pile of small bills. His face, usually ruddy and arrogant, was completely drained of color. He looked sick.

 He wasn’t looking at the money. His eyes were fixed on the dark corner of the room behind Trevor. “Pick it up, Ricky,” a voice commanded from the shadows. Trevor froze. The voice was smooth, cultured, but had carried the weight of a falling guillotine. “Sbastian Falconee stepped into the dim overhead light. He had removed his tie and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of a dark tattoo on his collarbone.

He looked perfectly calm, which was the most terrifying thing of all. Leo and Victor stepped into the room behind him, locking the steel door with a heavy metallic clank. “Mr. Falconee,” Ricky stammered, standing up so fast his chair tipped over. I I didn’t know he was coming here today. Trevor’s knees buckled.

 He knew who Sebastian Falcone was. Everyone in the Boston nightife knew the Kingpin, but he couldn’t fathom why the head of the syndicate was standing in a dirty souy back room. Sebastian ignored Ricky. He walked slowly toward Trevor. The custom leather of his Italian loafers made no sound on the concrete floor. He stopped mere inches from Trevor, looking down at the pathetic, trembling man.

 “Where did you get this money, Trevor?” Sebastian asked, his voice a soft, deadly purr. “I I had some savings,” Trevor lied. A bead of cold sweat dripping down his nose. “I swear to God, Mr. Falconee, it’s all there. Sebastian reached out, his large, calloused hand gently tracing the lapel of Trevor’s cheap jacket.

 Then, with blinding speed, Sebastian’s hand shot up and wrapped around Trevor’s throat. He squeezed, cutting off Trevor’s air instantly, and lifted the man onto his tiptoes. Let me tell you about this money,” Sebastian whispered, pulling Trevor’s turning blue face inches from his own. “This money smells like frier grease and cheap coffee.

 It was saved or $5 at a time by a woman who stood on her feet for 8 hours a night while you drank your life away. A woman whose worth you are too blind, too utterly stupid to comprehend.” Trevor’s eyes bulged. He clawed at Sebastian’s iron grip, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. “You broke her arm,” Sebastian stated, the ice in his voice cracking to reveal the roaring inferno beneath.

 “You called her a monster, but you have no idea what a real monster looks like.” Sebastian threw Trevor to the ground. Trevor gasped, clutching his throat, sobbing uncontrollably. “Please, I didn’t know she was yours. I didn’t know. She isn’t mine, Sebastian corrected, adjusting his cuffs. I am hers, Victor. Victor stepped forward with a heavy lead filled leather sap.

 He broke her right arm, [clears throat] Sebastian instructed coldly, turning his back as Trevor began to scream. “Break both of his, then shatter his kneecaps. If I ever see him within the state lines of Massachusetts again, I want his head delivered to my office in a box. As Sebastian walked out into the crisp evening air, the sickening sounds of snapping bone and muffled screams echoed against the brick walls.

He didn’t blink. He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing the clinic. “Is she awake?” he asked. 6 weeks later, the morning sun filtered through the floor toseeiling windows of Sebastian’s penthouse overlooking the Boston Harbor. The space was a masterpiece of modern luxury, cool marble floors, plush velvet furniture, and the subtle scent of fresh liies and expensive espresso.

 Scarlet stood in the massive master bathroom, staring at her reflection in the steamfoged mirror. She wore a silk robe that Sebastian had customordered for her from Milan. It draped over her heavy curves beautifully, clinging to the plush softness of her hips and the generous swell of her chest. Her right arm was free of the heavy cast, replaced by a sleek black brace.

 For the first time in years, she didn’t hate the woman staring back at her. The dark circles under her eyes were gone. The hollow, hunted look had vanished, replaced by a quiet, blooming confidence. Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind. Sebastian pressed his chest against her back, resting his chin on her shoulder. He met her gaze in the mirror.

What are you thinking about?” he murmured, his voice thick with mourning sleepiness. “I’m thinking about Ali’s diner,” Scarlet admitted softly, leaning back into his solid warmth. “I’m thinking about how I used to feel so invisible.” Sebastian turned her around in his arms. He reached out, his fingertips tracing the curve of her jaw, trailing down her neck to the soft, heavy flesh of her waist.

 He touched her with a reverence that still took her breath away, treating her body like a priceless work of art that belonged solely in his private gallery. “You were never invisible to me, Scarlet,” he said, his piercing gray eyes burning with raw, unfiltered devotion. “You were the only real thing in a city full of ghosts.

 I just had to wait for you to see it, too.” He leaned down, capturing her lips in a deep, consuming kiss. The taste of dark coffee and danger lingered on his tongue, a stark contrast to the absolute safety of his embrace. Trevor was gone, a crippled memory fading into the dirt. The diner was a closed chapter. Here, wrapped in the arms of the city’s most dangerous man, Scarlet finally realized her own power. She was soft.

 She was heavy. And she was fiercely, undeniably loved. The mafia boss hadn’t just saved her life. She had saved his soul. If this story of Scarlet finding her worth and a ruthless mafia boss delivering ultimate justice kept you on the edge of your seat, hit that like button right now.

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