They Regretted Firing Me

Thanksgiving was right around the corner, and the office inside our front logistics firm was buzzing with holiday energy.

I had my assistant bring out a heavy wooden chest. Inside were velvet pouches packed with ten uncirculated gold bullion coins for every single person. This was our family tradition from day one. Every major holiday, you get solid gold straight from our private vault. No paper trails, no taxes, no exceptions.

Beatrice, our new marketing intern, poked her head out from her cubicle and wrinkled her nose as she watched my assistant hand them out.

"Wait, an empire this big doesn't even give us festive Thanksgiving turkeys?"

She said it loud enough for the entire open office to hear.

Elena, a veteran clerk who knew exactly what kind of mafia bloodline ran this place, quickly tugged her sleeve. "Beatrice, shut up. The gold coins are the gift," she whispered. "It's way better than some cheap grocery-store bird. You're new, you don't get it."

Another colleague chimed in. "Yeah, I used last year's coins to pay off my entire car loan cash-in-hand. Beats a frozen turkey any day."

"Oh, really?" Beatrice dragged out her words with pure Gen-Z sarcasm. "Gold is just money, but a traditional turkey is a real gesture. If a boss can't even bother to give us a holiday bird, it shows they don't care. There’s no real thought behind it, you know?"

The air in the room went dead silent. Elena and the guy quickly shrank back into their chairs.

Later that afternoon, there was a knock on my door. Beatrice stepped in clutching a tablet. "Victoria? Got a sec? I wanted to talk about our workplace culture and morale."

I nodded.

She shut the heavy, soundproof door and put on a practiced corporate smile.

"Victoria, as an industry leader with our family's massive status, we should really be leveling up our internal vibe and employee care."

"Go on," I said, leaning back.

"Take Thanksgiving, for example. The gold is great, totally. But it feels a little... transactional. It lacks that real family warmth. If we supplemented the gold with a curated turkey dinner for everyone, it would prove the company actually values us as human beings."

I stared at her, trying not to laugh at her sheer ignorance.

"Our tradition," I said slowly, "is to put absolute financial power directly into our people's hands. With ten gold coins, you can buy a hundred organic turkeys if you want. Or a plane ticket. Or fix your car. Giving people choices is infinitely more respectful than forcing a block of frozen meat on someone who might be a vegetarian."

Beatrice’s smile froze.

"Victoria, that's not what I mean. We need a dual approach. Material rewards plus emotional connection."

I cut her off. "I only know one rule. Putting real, untraceable wealth into my people's pockets and trusting them to use it is the highest form of respect I can show them."

She stood there, speechless for a second, before mumbling a tight, "It was just a suggestion."

She turned and marched out, her heels clicking loudly against the floor.

I didn't think much of it. Just a naive kid trying to make a point. When I first took over this family enterprise while the feds were breathing down our necks, things were incredibly brutal, and I always felt indebted to the original crew who stuck by me through the worst of it. So, once our empire was secure, I made sure our benefits were the absolute best in the business. I wanted to build a place where people under our wing could live with dignity.

I never imagined my own blood-bought generosity would be used as a leash to choke me.

Just before three, I noticed Marco—one of our senior customs brokers who was always complaining about his commission cuts.

He and Beatrice slipped away into the breakroom to talk trash. Peering through the glass, I could see them whispering over their coffee mugs.

"So? What'd the boss lady say?" Marco asked.

Beatrice scoffed. "She’s completely power-tripping. Spoke to me like I was some low-level street thug."

Marco's eyes darted around nervously. "Told you," he whispered back. "She's cheap, hoarding the family vaults while we take all the heat. Keep pressing her, Beatrice. It's about the principle, the vibe. You're doing the right thing."

Beatrice's chin lifted. "Don't worry, Marco. I've got this."

I watched through my glass window as she pulled out her phone. She set up her camera, took a few panning shots of her cubicle, and then flipped the lens to face herself. Her expression instantly changed. Her eyes welled up with tears, her lower lip trembled, and she looked completely heartbroken.

She hit record and started a livestream right there from her desk, her face a perfect mask of manufactured sorrow.

A cold pit formed in my stomach. I had a very, very bad feeling about this.

That night, as I was scrolling through my encrypted phone, a notification popped up from X. A clip of her livestream was going viral across the state.

The title read: "Exposing My Toxic Mob Boss: Denying Us Basic Holiday Respect."

The thumbnail was a close-up of Beatrice's face, a single, perfect tear rolling down her cheek.