“‘Can You Come Get Me?’—Poor, Broken Waitress Calls the Mafia Boss After Her Psychotic Ex Breaks Her Arm, and What Happens Next Humiliates Every Man in New York Who Ever Laid a Hand on a Woman”
The phone trembled in Mia Collins’s bloodstained hands, her shattered left arm screaming with every breath, the bone jutting through skin at a grotesque angle. But agony was nothing compared to the terror pounding inside her chest. She was trapped in the bathroom, her toxic ex, Dererick Hayes, pounding on the door, splintering wood with each blow. In her palm, a business card she’d hidden for eight months—a card from the most dangerous man in New York City. Luca Benedetti, mafia boss, king of the underworld, the last hope for a woman nobody had ever come for.
Eight months before, Mia was just a waitress at Bellinis, Manhattan’s most luxurious restaurant. She wore her black uniform, hair pinned up, bruises on her wrist hidden under makeup. Seven years with Dererick had taught her to smile through pain, to lie about falling down stairs, to accept that mistakes always came with a price. That night, a VIP guest arrived—table seven, private section. Mia approached with trembling hands, a bottle of red wine. She saw him: tall, black hair, steel-gray eyes, face carved from stone, surrounded by men in black suits. The air thickened. She poured wine, her hand shaking, and spilled it straight onto Luca Benedetti’s thousand-dollar suit.
She froze, waiting for rage, for humiliation. But Luca only looked at her, eyes flicking from the stain to her wrist, where the makeup had smeared, revealing finger-shaped bruises. Mia jerked her hand away, too late. He’d seen. “It’s all right,” he said, voice low, even. “Accidents happen.” His men exchanged glances, murmured in Italian. Luca silenced them with a gesture. Mia stammered an apology and fled to the kitchen, certain she’d be fired, that Dererick would find out and punish her. But when her shift ended, the manager handed her an envelope—ten times the usual tips. Inside was a black card with gold lettering: Luca Benedetti, and on the back, “If you need help anytime.” That night, Mia hid the card in her bra, a secret weapon she never thought she’d use.
Eight months she carried it. Eight months of bruises, broken bones, and prayers that someone would save her. Eight months wondering if a mafia boss would remember a nameless waitress who spilled wine on his suit. Now, on the icy bathroom floor, with Dererick snarling outside, Mia was about to find out. She dialed the number with her right hand, her left arm useless, blood pooling on the tile. One ring. Two. Three. She was about to die—she knew it. If Dererick broke in, he’d kill her. She’d seen it in his eyes when he snapped her arm. This wasn’t rage; this was madness.
“Hello.” The voice came through the line, low, dangerous. Mia’s throat locked. Seven years of fear had taught her silence. “You said if I ever needed help…” she whispered. Silence. Then: “You worked at Bellinis. Mia.” He remembered. She broke down sobbing. “Where are you?” His voice sharpened. She whispered her address. “Please, I can’t—he broke my arm.” The bathroom door burst open. Dererick stormed in, yanked the phone from her hand. “Who is this?” he demanded, pressing the phone to his ear. “This is my wife. Who the hell are you?” Silence. Then, loud enough for Mia to hear: “Luca Benedetti.” Dererick’s face turned from red to ghostly white. “You just made the last mistake of your life,” Luca continued, voice cold as ice. “I’ll be there in eight minutes. I suggest you spend those eight minutes praying.”
Dererick hurled the phone at the wall, then turned on Mia, fear twisting into wild fury. He dragged her out of the bathroom, threw her onto the kitchen floor, searching for a knife. “You think that guy will save you? You think you can escape me?” Mia screamed as her broken arm slammed into the doorframe. “I’ll kill you before he gets here,” Dererick hissed, grabbing the largest kitchen knife. “Eight minutes,” Mia told herself. “Just survive eight minutes.” But staring at the flashing blade, she didn’t know if she could survive even eight seconds.
Dererick knelt, knife to her cheek. “I’ll show you what happens to those who betray me.” He sliced her face, satisfaction in his eyes. “That Benedetti bastard will arrive to nothing but a corpse.” He raised the knife. In the final moment, Mia kicked him in the groin with all her strength. He doubled over, the knife clattering to the floor. Mia crawled toward the door. Luca was coming. She just had to survive. But Dererick recovered, yanked her back, punched her face, her stomach, again and again. The world dissolved into pain and blood.
Five minutes had passed. Three left. Dererick panicked, knife trembling in his hand. He had to run. But Mia would testify. He knelt, raised the knife at Mia’s chest. The doorbell rang. Dererick froze. The clock showed six minutes. Impossible. The doorbell rang again, patient, steady, as if the person outside had all day. Dererick opened the door—and every lie he’d prepared dissolved instantly.
Luca Benedetti stood there, taller, colder, with four men in black behind him. Dererick tried to speak. “She’s my wife, you have no right—” Luca stepped forward, as if Dererick didn’t exist. Dererick threatened to call the police, raised the knife. Luca looked into his eyes, and Dererick saw hell—absolute emptiness. “Franco,” Luca said. His brother stepped forward, broke Dererick’s arm with a single strike. Dererick screamed, the pain blinding. For the first time, he felt what he’d inflicted on Mia for seven years.
Luca walked past him, found Mia on the kitchen floor, blood soaking the tile, her body broken. He wrapped her in his jacket, lifted her gently, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. “Tony, get the car ready. Call Dr. Reed. Clean the scene.” “What about him?” Franco asked. “Take him with us. I want her to watch him be destroyed piece by piece.” Dererick whimpered, tears streaming down his face. Luca carried Mia out, holding her close, whispering, “No one will ever hurt you again. I swear.”
Mia woke three days later in a silk nightgown, her arm in a cast, her ribs bandaged, lying in a king-sized bed scented with lavender. She was in the Benedetti mansion. Dr. Reed, gentle, explained her injuries. “You don’t owe anyone anything. Benedetti has taken care of everything.” Luca stayed by her bedside for three days, only leaving when forced to rest. When she woke, he returned, eyes softer than she remembered. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said. “You’ll stay until you’re healed. You’re safe. No obligations, no conditions.” Tears streamed down Mia’s face. For the first time in seven years, someone told her she had a choice.
“What about Dererick?” she asked. “He’s no longer your concern,” Luca replied, voice cold. “I’ve handled it.” Mia didn’t ask for details. She was too tired, too hurt. She drifted back into sleep, Luca sitting beside her, watching over her nightmares.
Weeks passed. Mia healed in the mansion, finding peace she never thought possible. Luca visited daily, never demanding, always gentle. He froze Dererick’s accounts, exposed his crimes, ensured he’d never hurt her again. Mia began to believe she was truly free. But the past wasn’t done. Dererick was released on bail. The mansion became a fortress, but Mia couldn’t sleep, knowing he was out there.
Then, one night, gunshots rang out. Dererick broke into the mansion, killing two guards, storming into Mia’s room, gun in hand. “You betrayed me,” he roared, pressing the barrel against her forehead. “You destroyed my life.” Mia sobbed, begging for mercy. Dererick cocked the gun. “Goodbye, Mia.” The gunshot didn’t come. Luca’s voice cut through the darkness. “Drop the gun.” Dererick spun, grabbed Mia as a shield. Luca couldn’t shoot, and Dererick dragged Mia out, knocking her unconscious.
Mia woke in an abandoned warehouse, tied to a chair, Dererick torturing her, slicing her body piece by piece, sending bloody packages to Luca every hour. Twelve hours of hell. Luca tore New York apart looking for her. When he finally found her, he led a convoy of armed men, kicked down the door, and faced Dererick, who held Mia as a human shield, knife to her throat. Luca advanced, terrifyingly calm. “If you kill her, you die. If you don’t, you still die. The only difference is how.” Franco fired, shooting Dererick’s shoulder. Mia collapsed, Luca catching her, whispering, “I’m here. I’ve got you.” She passed out in his arms.
Three days later, Mia woke in the mansion, bandaged, alive. Luca sat beside her, hollow-eyed. “He’s in the basement,” he said. “Waiting for me to deal with.” “Don’t kill him,” Mia whispered. “Turn him over to the police. Let him rot in prison, knowing I’m free and happy.” Luca nodded. Dererick was handed over to the FBI with overwhelming evidence. At trial, Mia testified, her courage silencing the room, her words stripping Dererick of all power. He was sentenced to 25 years without parole. For the first time, Mia faced him without fear, telling him he was nothing. She walked out of the courtroom into Luca’s arms, crying tears of release, knowing her new life began that day.
Months passed. Mia rebuilt herself—therapy, driving lessons, support groups, new friends. Luca waited, never demanding, never pressuring, just leaving flowers and books at her door. When Mia was ready, she invited him to dinner, paid with her own money, kissed him on the cheek, and chose him. One year after the blood-soaked call, they returned to Bellinis, creating new memories at table seven. Luca told her he loved her, and Mia finally said the words back, knowing she was free, knowing she chose love, not fear.
Two years later, Mia’s book—The Final Call—became a bestseller, helping thousands of women escape their own hells. She founded Voices, a nonprofit for survivors, and stood onstage before hundreds, telling her story, urging others to speak out, to call for help, to believe that someone will come. Luca watched from the crowd, pride shining in his eyes. Mia had walked out of hell and built her own heaven. The lesson lived on: Real love isn’t control—it’s freedom. Not fists, but hands held together. Not fear, but safety. And everyone deserves to be loved that way.
If you know someone living in fear, if you’ve survived your own nightmare, share this story. Because sometimes, calling for help is the bravest thing you’ll ever do—and someone will always come.
