I’ve been invisible for eight months.  That’s the truth of working in a house   like Giovanni Moretti’s—you learn  to move through rooms like air,   present but unnoticed. My hands polish surfaces  that gleam under chandeliers I could never afford,   fold towels softer than anything I’ve  ever slept on, and arrange flowers that   cost more than my weekly groceries.

The mansion  sprawls across three floors of Manhattan luxury,   all marble and dark wood and windows that  overlook a city I can barely afford to live in. Giovanni Moretti himself is a shadow I’ve  learned to predict. I hear his footsteps   on the stairs—measured, deliberate—and know to  be elsewhere. I catch glimpses of him through   doorways: dark hair perfectly styled, expensive  suits that fit like they were born on him,   and eyes the color of aged whiskey that never  quite land on me.

He holds meetings in his study   with men who speak in low voices and leave  through side doors. I clean up after them,   empty ashtrays that smell of Cuban cigars,  collect forgotten glasses still wet with liquor. I don’t ask questions. That’s not my job. My job is to disappear. The only constant in this carefully ordered  existence is Brittany.

My sister works in the   kitchen, twenty-three years old with our mother’s  easy laugh and none of my caution. She makes   breakfasts that smell like comfort and dinners  that look like art, and every evening when our   shifts end, we ride the subway back to our cramped  apartment in the Bronx together. Two bedrooms,   thin walls, neighbors who fight at 3 a.m.,  but it’s ours. Well, rented. Barely afforded.

I work the extra shifts when they’re  offered because I need every dollar.   Because forty-seven thousand dollars in medical  debt doesn’t disappear on its own. Because my   mother died two years ago from cancer that ate  through her body and our savings simultaneously,   and the bills kept coming long after  her funeral.

I signed payment plans I’ll   be honoring into my thirties, accepted  interest rates that should be criminal,   and learned to survive on  cheap coffee and cheaper hope. So I clean. I fold. I polish. I  accept overtime without complaint. Thursday night, the grandfather clock in  the main hall chimes ten times as I finish   wiping down the banister.

My shoulders ache from  scrubbing tile grout in the third-floor bathroom,   and my lower back protests when I bend to  collect my cleaning caddy. October in New York   means darkness falls early, and through the tall  windows, I watch rain begin to streak the glass. “You heading out?” Brittany appears  from the kitchen, pulling on her jacket.   She smells like rosemary and garlic from  whatever she prepared for Giovanni’s dinner.

“Yeah. Long day.” She studies my face with the particular intensity  only siblings can manage. “You look exhausted.” “I’m fine.” “You always say that.” She links her  arm through mine as we walk toward   the service entrance. “Movie night  this weekend? I’ll make popcorn.” “If I’m not working.” “Lauren.” Her voice carries gentle reproach.  “You can’t keep doing doubles forever.

” But I can. I have to. The next payment is due in  two weeks, and I’m short by three hundred dollars. Outside, the rain has graduated from drizzle  to downpour. We huddle under the small awning   by the service door, and Brittany pulls  out her phone to check the subway status. “Train’s running on time.

Ready to make a run for it?” Three blocks. That’s all it is. Three  blocks from the Moretti mansion to the   Christopher Street station. We’ve walked  it hundreds of times, usually together,   sometimes alone when our shifts  don’t align.

The neighborhood is   supposed to be safe—this is Giovanni’s  territory, after all, and I’ve heard the   whispers about what that means. Protection.  Order. Rules enforced by men in dark suits. Tonight, Brittany got a text from her  boyfriend before we left. Some emergency   with his roommate that had her swearing  under her breath and apologizing profusely. “Go,” I told her. “I’ll be fine.” “You sure?” “It’s three blocks.

” She kissed my cheek and ran  toward the garage where she’d   parked her ancient Honda. I watched her  taillights disappear around the corner,   then pulled my hood up against  the rain and started walking. The street was quieter than usual.  Most storefronts had already closed,   their windows dark except for security lights  that cast everything in shades of amber and   shadow. My sneakers splashed through puddles,  soaking through to my socks within half a block.

I kept my head down, focused on the familiar  route, counting the shops I passed like prayer   beads. The Italian restaurant. The dry cleaner.  The pharmacy with the flickering neon sign. Two blocks down. One to go. The alley appeared on my left,  narrow and dark between two   buildings. I’d passed it a thousand  times without thought. But tonight,   two figures stepped out from the  shadows, blocking the sidewalk ahead.

I stopped. Heart suddenly  hammering against my ribs. “Evening,” one of them said. White guy,  maybe thirty, with a shaved head and a   jacket that looked too thin for the weather.  His companion was taller, broader, silent. “Evening,” I managed, moving to step around them. The first man shifted, staying in my  path.

“Where you headed in such a hurry?” “Home.” My voice came out  steadier than I felt. “Excuse me.” “Hold on now.” He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.  “Just being neighborly. Making conversation.” The taller one moved behind me, cutting  off retreat. My stomach dropped. “I don’t want trouble,” I said. “No trouble.” The first man held up his hands,   palms out. “Just need your bag. And that  phone in your pocket. Nice and easy.

” My mind raced through options. Scream—but  who would hear over the rain? Run—but where?   Fight—against two men twice my size? I pulled my crossbody bag over my head with  shaking hands and held it out. He took it,   rifled through quickly, pocketed my  wallet. Then he looked at me expectantly. “Phone.” I reached into my jacket, fingers numb,   and handed over my cell. My lifeline. My  alarm clock. My connection to Brittany.

“Good girl.” He examined the phone, then his  eyes landed on my shirt. My cleaning uniform,   visible where my jacket hung open.  Simple gray polo with the mansion’s   discreet logo embroidered on the chest.  “Wait a second.” He stepped closer,   rain plastering his face. “You work at  that house. The big one on the corner.

” Fear spiked cold through my veins. “No.” “Don’t lie.” He grabbed my collar,  yanking me forward. “I seen that   logo before. You work for the Italian, don’t you?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Bullshit.” He looked at his  companion. “She works for Moretti.” The taller man’s expression changed.  Something dark crossed his features.

“I’m just a cleaner,” I said desperately. “I  don’t know anything. I just clean houses. Please.” “Just a cleaner.” The first man  laughed, but it was ugly. “Well,   just a cleaner, you’re gonna  deliver a message for us.” The first punch came from nowhere, catching me  across the cheekbone.

Pain exploded white-hot   behind my eyes, and I staggered backward.  Before I could recover, hands grabbed my arms,   fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. I tried  to scream, but a palm clamped over my mouth. “This is what happens,” the first man  said, close to my ear, “when people   think they own our streets. When they think  their Italian boss can tell us what to do.” The second hit caught my ribs. Then another.

And another. I stopped counting after  the fourth, stopped trying to fight,   just curled inward and prayed for it to end.  Someone grabbed my hair, yanked my head back,   and I saw the first man’s fist coming  toward my face before everything went black. I don’t know how long I was unconscious.  Could have been seconds or minutes.

When   awareness returned, I was lying on wet  pavement, rain drumming against my back.   Every breath felt like knives in my  side. My left eye wouldn’t open properly,   swollen and throbbing. The metallic  taste of blood filled my mouth. They were gone. My bag, my phone, and my  attackers—all vanished into the October night.

I pushed myself to sitting, biting back a sob  as my ribs protested. My hands were scraped raw,   my jeans torn at the knee.  Through my one working eye,   I could see the subway station ahead,  its lights wavering through the rain. Get up. Move. Get home. I don’t remember the walk clearly.  Just fragments.

Stumbling through the   turnstile. A woman’s concerned face asking if  I needed help—me shaking my head. The jarring   motion of the train. Climbing the stairs to our  apartment building felt like scaling a mountain. Our bathroom mirror told the story my body  already knew. My left eye was swollen shut,   purple spreading across the socket. My bottom lip  was split and bleeding.

When I lifted my shirt,   bruises were already forming along  my ribs in shades of red and purple.   My arms bore the clear imprint of  fingers where I’d been grabbed. I turned on the shower, letting it  run hot, and sat on the bathroom floor   fully clothed while steam filled the  space. Only then did I let myself cry,   quiet and controlled so I wouldn’t wake Brittany. But she woke anyway.

Her bedroom  door opened, footsteps approached,   and then she was in the bathroom  doorway, her face going pale. “Lauren. Oh my God, Lauren.” “I’m okay.” “You’re bleeding. We need to go to the hospital.” “No.” “Lauren—” “I can’t afford it.” My voice broke. “I  can’t afford the ER visit, Britt. I can’t.” She crouched beside me, her hands  hovering like she was afraid to   touch me and cause more pain.

“What happened?” “Mugged. Two guys. They took everything.” “Did you call the police?” “No phone, remember?” I tried to smile,   but my split lip made me wince. “It’s  fine. I’ll file a report tomorrow.” Brittany’s expression said she  didn’t believe any of this was fine,   but she didn’t argue.

Instead, she  helped me out of my wet clothes,   steadied me as I showered, and bandaged the  worst of the scrapes with supplies from our   first aid kit. When I finally crawled  into bed, she sat beside me in the dark. “I shouldn’t have left you alone,” she whispered. “Not your fault.

” But as I lay there, every part of my body  screaming, I couldn’t stop replaying the moment   the first man saw my uniform. The recognition in  his eyes. The deliberate violence that followed. This wasn’t random. And somehow, that made it infinitely worse. Sleep came in fragments, broken by pain that  pulsed through my ribs with every breath.   When my alarm went off at six, I  lay there staring at the ceiling,   contemplating the impossible mathematics of  missing work. I needed every shift.

Every   dollar. The medical bills didn’t care if  I’d been beaten half to death in an alley. Forty-seven thousand dollars. That number followed  me like a shadow, constant and suffocating. Each   month I chipped away at it—three hundred  here, five hundred when I worked doubles—but   the interest kept it alive, breathing, growing.  Missing even one day meant falling further behind.

I dragged myself upright, biting back a groan as  my ribs protested. The bathroom mirror showed me   exactly what I’d be working with: my left eye  had transformed into a grotesque palette of   purple and black, swollen enough that I could  barely see through the slit. The cut on my lip   had scabbed over during the night. Bruises bloomed  across my jaw and cheekbone like violent flowers.

Makeup became war paint. I layered concealer  thick enough to pass for a mask, though it   did little to hide the swelling. Foundation in  three different shades to try to match what my   skin used to look like. The eye was hopeless—no  amount of product could disguise that damage.   I settled for making the rest of my face look  human and hoped people wouldn’t look too closely.

The long-sleeve shirt came out of necessity  despite the October heat that had settled over   the city. Gray charcoal, high-necked, covering  every inch of damage I could hide. When I   checked my reflection one final time, I looked  like someone wearing a bad disguise of myself. Brittany was already in  the kitchen when I emerged,   and her face crumpled the moment she saw me.

“Don’t,” I said before she could  start. “I’m going to work.” “Lauren, you can barely walk.” “I can walk fine.” A lie. Every step sent shocks   through my left side where they’d  kicked me. “And I need the money.” “One day won’t—” “Yes, it will.” I poured coffee into a travel mug,   movements careful and deliberate. “Payment’s due  in two weeks. I’m already short three hundred.

” She opened her mouth, closed it. We both knew   the math. Both lived inside  the same impossible budget. “At least let me drive you,” she said finally. I accepted because the subway stairs  felt insurmountable this morning. The mansion looked exactly as it always  did—beautiful, imposing, utterly indifferent   to my suffering. Brittany dropped me at the  service entrance with a look that said we’d   be discussing this later, then drove around  to the garage.

She’d be in the kitchen by now,   starting prep for whatever elaborate  breakfast Giovanni preferred on Fridays. I made it through the morning on autopilot. Dust  the library. Vacuum the second-floor hallway.   Change linens in the guest rooms. Each task  required focus to complete without aggravating   my injuries. I moved slowly, methodically,  and avoided every reflective surface I passed.

Around noon, Brittany found me  folding towels in the linen closet. “You look awful,” she said bluntly. “Thanks.” “I’m serious. Your face is twice its normal size.” “It’s fine.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice.  “Did you at least file a police report?” “I will. After work.” Another lie.

What  would I tell them? That I got mugged   and the attackers mentioned my employer? That  felt dangerous in ways I couldn’t articulate. “Lauren—” “I need to finish the third floor.” I picked  up my caddy of cleaning supplies, using it as   a shield. “Mr. Moretti has people coming this  afternoon. Everything needs to be perfect.” Brittany’s expression suggested she had more  to say, but she let me go.

I climbed the   stairs slowly, grateful for the emptiness of the  upper floors where no one would see me struggle. Giovanni’s study was last on my list. He typically  spent afternoons in meetings downtown, leaving his   private space empty until evening. I knocked twice  out of habit, got no response, and let myself in.

The room smelled of leather and aged paper, with  undertones of the whiskey he drank and the cigars   he smoked on the terrace. His desk dominated  the space—dark wood polished to a mirror shine,   papers arranged in precise stacks. I’d  learned his system over months of cleaning:   never move the papers, just dust around  them. Never touch the laptop.

The crystal   decanter and glasses got hand-washed  and replaced exactly where they’d been. I was wiping down the windowsill,  back to the door, when I heard it. Footsteps. My heart jumped stupidly, rabbit-quick  panic, before logic reasserted itself.   Just another employee. The housekeeper.  Franco checking if I needed anything.

But when I turned, Giovanni  Moretti stood in the doorway. He’d removed his suit jacket, rolled his  shirtsleeves to his elbows. Dark hair   slightly disheveled like he’d been running  his hands through it. And his eyes—those   dark whiskey eyes I’d seen a hundred times  from a distance—were fixed directly on me.

Actually seeing me. Not through me. “Sorry, Mr. Moretti.” My voice  came out steadier than I felt.   “I thought you were out this  afternoon. I can come back—” “What happened to your face?” The question landed like a  physical blow. Direct. Unavoidable. “I fell.” The lie I’d practiced. “Subway  stairs. They get slippery when it rains.

” He didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just stood there   watching me with an intensity that made my  skin prickle. Then he stepped into the room,   closing the door behind him with a  quiet click that felt far too intimate. “Look at me.” Not a request. Not quite an order.

Something  in between that made me obey before I’d decided   to. I lifted my face, let him see the full  extent of the damage the makeup couldn’t hide. His expression didn’t change—still that careful  neutrality I’d observed from afar—but something   hardened in his jaw. He crossed the space between  us in three measured steps, and suddenly he was   close. Too close. Near enough that I could smell  cedar and something darker, more expensive.

“Tell me again how you fell.” “The stairs were wet. I lost my footing.” “Which side did you fall on?” The question confused me. “What?” “Left or right. Which side hit the stairs.” “I—” My mind scrambled. “Left. I think.” “You think.” He circled slowly, like a  predator examining prey, and I fought   the urge to back away. “But you’re favoring  your left side when you breathe.

Protecting   it. So you fell on the left, hit your left eye,  split your lip, and now your left ribs hurt.” Heat flooded my face. “Yes.” “That’s a very consistent fall.” He stopped  in front of me again. “Show me your arms.” “Mr. Moretti—” “Show me.” My hands trembled as I set down the  cleaning cloth. This was my employer.

I couldn’t refuse. Didn’t want to, for reasons  I couldn’t examine too closely. I pushed up the   right sleeve first—the arm that had taken less  damage. Just some scrapes across the forearm. “The other one.” I hesitated. The left arm told a different story.   But Giovanni waited with infinite patience,  and eventually I pushed up that sleeve too.

The bruises were spectacular. Perfect  finger-shaped marks circling my bicep   where someone had grabbed me. Purple  and yellow and angry red. Unmistakable. Giovanni stared at them for a long  moment. When he finally spoke,   his voice had dropped to  something cold and deadly. “Who did this to you?” “I told you—” “Don’t.” The word cracked like  a whip.

“Don’t lie to me again,   Lauren. Those are not from a fall. Someone  grabbed you. Held you. Where did this happen?” The use of my name shocked me into silence.  I hadn’t known he knew my name. Eight months   of invisibility, and he’d known it all along. “Three blocks from here.” The  truth came out before I could   stop it. “Thursday night. Walking to the subway.

” “What did they take?” “My bag. Phone. Wallet.” “And then?” I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find words  for the violence that had followed,   the deliberate cruelty. “And then?” he repeated,  softer but no less insistent. “They saw my uniform.” My voice cracked.  “Asked if I worked for you. I said no,   but they didn’t believe me. They said—” I  stopped, swallowed. “They said it was a message.

” The silence that followed felt dangerous.  Giovanni’s jaw tightened incrementally,   the only visible sign of whatever  was happening behind those dark   eyes. Then he moved to his desk,  pressed a button on the phone. “Franco. My office. Now.” “Mr. Moretti, please—” I started. “Sit down.” “I don’t want to cause trouble—” “Sit. Down.” Not angry. Just absolute. The voice  of someone who expected obedience and received it.

I sat in one of the leather chairs  facing his desk, feeling small and   exposed. Giovanni remained standing, one  hand braced on the desk, staring at nothing. Franco arrived within minutes—a man in  his late thirties with silver threading   his dark hair and eyes that missed nothing.  He took one look at my face and went still.

“Three blocks from here,”  Giovanni said without preamble.   “Thursday night. Two men. They saw her  uniform and decided to deliver a message.” Franco’s expression turned  to stone. “Where exactly?” “Between the dry cleaner and the pharmacy,”  I supplied quietly. “Around ten-fifteen.” “We have cameras in that area. I’ll pull  the footage.” He glanced at me again,   and there was something almost like sympathy  in his eyes.

“Can you describe them?” I did. White guy, shaved head,  thin jacket. Taller companion,   broader, never spoke. Details I’d  replayed in my mind all night. “Cole,” Franco said after a moment. “Sounds  like Darren Cole. Works for the Albanians.” Giovanni’s hand curled into a fist on the desk.   “Find him. Find them both. I  want them here by midnight.

” “Consider it done.” Franco left as quickly as he’d arrived,  and I was alone with Giovanni again.   The silence stretched unbearably  until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “This isn’t necessary,” I said.  “I’m fine. It was just a mugging—” “It wasn’t a mugging.

” Giovanni finally looked  at me, and there was something in his expression   that made my breath catch. Not pity. Not even  anger, exactly. “It was a challenge. An insult.   They attacked you because you work for me, in my  territory, on my street. That makes it personal.” “I’m just a maid.” “You work in my home.

” He moved around the  desk, sat in the chair beside mine instead   of behind the desk. Close. Equal. “You’ve  been here eight months. I notice things,   Lauren. How you organize books by  author without being asked. How you   never gossip with the other staff. How  you take every overtime shift offered.” My throat tightened. “I need the money.” “I know. Medical bills for your mother.

” Of course he knew. He probably knew  everything about everyone who worked for him. “So you understand,” he continued, voice dropping,   “why I can’t let this go. If I allow someone  to hurt one of my people without consequences,   it shows weakness. And weakness  in my world gets you killed.” The casual mention of killing  should have terrified me.

Instead,   I felt something else entirely. Something warm  and dangerous that had no place in this situation. “What will you do to them?” I asked. “What needs to be done.” He stood, offered me  his hand. “Come. You’re not cleaning anything   else today. You’re going to rest in one  of the guest rooms until this is handled.” I took his hand before I’d decided to.

His  grip was firm, careful, and he pulled me to   my feet with effortless strength. For a moment  we stood too close, his hand still holding mine,   and the air between us felt charged  with something I didn’t understand. Then he released me and stepped back. “This way.” I followed him through corridors  I’d cleaned a thousand times,   but everything looked different now.  I wasn’t invisible anymore.

Giovanni   Moretti saw me. Knew my name. And for reasons  I couldn’t fathom, that changed everything. The guest room Giovanni showed me to was  larger than my bedroom at home. Cream walls,   floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking  the garden, furniture that looked like   it belonged in a museum. I stood in the  doorway, feeling profoundly out of place.

“Sit,” Giovanni said, gesturing to  an upholstered chair by the window.   “Franco will need time to pull the security  footage. I want you resting until then.” “I should finish my work—” “That wasn’t a suggestion.” His tone allowed  no argument. “You’re injured. You’ll rest.” He left before I could protest further,  the door clicking shut with quiet finality.

I sank into the chair because my legs were shaking  and my ribs screamed with every movement. Through   the window, I watched shadows lengthen across  the garden as afternoon shifted toward evening. Brittany appeared twenty minutes later,  carrying a tray with tea and sandwiches   I hadn’t asked for. She set it on the side  table, then perched on the arm of my chair.

“Okay, what the hell is happening?” She  kept her voice low. “Giovanni Moretti   just personally escorted you upstairs. Franco’s  running around looking like someone kicked his   dog. And you’re sitting in the nicest guest room  like you’re actually a guest instead of staff.” “He knows about the attack.

” “How?” “He saw my face. Asked questions. I couldn’t  keep lying.” I picked up the teacup,   more for something to do with my  hands than from thirst. “Britt,   they recognized my uniform. The men who  attacked me. They knew I worked here.” Her face went pale. “That’s why Giovanni’s—” “Taking it personally. Yeah.” I sipped the tea.

Too hot, burning my already split lip, but I   welcomed the distraction. “He said it’s an insult  to him. That he can’t let it go unpunished.” Brittany was quiet for a moment, processing. Then,   “I’ve worked here two years.  Never seen him like this.” “Like what?” “Focused. Angry, but cold angry. The kind  that’s more dangerous than yelling.

” She   studied me with those too-knowing  sister eyes. “He used your name.” “So?” “Lauren, he calls me ‘the cook.’ Everyone  else is ‘staff.’ He knows our names—he   knows everything—but he doesn’t use them.  Distance, you know? But he used yours.” Before I could respond to that deeply  uncomfortable observation, a knock came   at the door. Franco entered, carrying a laptop  and manila folder. His expression was grim.

“We have the footage,” he said without preamble.  “Mr. Moretti wants you to confirm identification.” I followed him downstairs to Giovanni’s study,   Brittany trailing behind us like a protective  shadow. The room felt different now—charged with   purpose instead of empty luxury.

Giovanni  stood behind his desk, jacket discarded,   sleeves rolled up, looking every inch the  dangerous man I’d always suspected he was. Franco opened the laptop, angled the screen toward  me. Grainy black-and-white footage showed a street   corner I recognized. The timestamp read 10:14  p.m. Thursday. I watched myself walk into frame,   hood up against the rain, head down.  Then two figures emerged from the alley. My stomach twisted. Even in poor  quality video, I recognized them.

“That’s them,” I said quietly. Franco paused the frame, zoomed in on  the first man’s face. “You’re certain?” “Yes. He’s the one who grabbed  me. Asked about my uniform.” Giovanni leaned forward, studying  the frozen image with predatory   focus. “Darren Cole. Small-time enforcer for  the Albanian operation.

Works collections,   intimidation.” He looked  at Franco. “The other one?” “Viktor something. Croatian, I think. Muscle  for hire.” Franco pulled photographs from the   folder, spread them across the desk.  “Cole’s been on our radar for months.   He’s part of Krasniqi’s crew  pushing into Lower Manhattan.” “Krasniqi.” Giovanni pronounced the name  like a curse. “So this wasn’t random.

” “Territory play,” Franco confirmed. “They’re   testing boundaries. Hitting your  people to see if you’ll respond.” I listened to them discuss violence  and territory and power plays like   they were analyzing a chess match. The clinical  detachment should have frightened me. Instead,   I felt strangely removed, like I was watching  a play instead of participating in my own life.

“What will you do?” The question  escaped before I could stop it. Both men looked at me. Giovanni’s  expression softened fractionally. “Find them. Bring them here. Make it clear   that touching anyone under my  protection has consequences.” “You don’t have to do this because of me.”  My voice sounded small even to my own ears.

“I’m nobody. Just someone who cleans your house.” Giovanni circled the desk  with deliberate slowness,   each step measured and purposeful.  He stopped directly in front of me,   close enough that I had to tilt my  head back to maintain eye contact. “You work in my home,” he said, voice low  and intense. “You’ve been here eight months.

I’ve noticed how you fold the newspapers so the  headlines face up. How you water the orchids in   the library every Tuesday because you know they  need consistent care. How you never complain,   never ask for anything, just do  your job with quiet competence.” Heat flooded my face.

“You noticed that?” “I notice everything in my world,  Lauren. And you’re part of it,   whether you realize it or not.” He  glanced at Franco. “Assemble a team.   Six men. Find Cole and bring him to me.  The Croatian too if you can locate him.” “Done.” Franco closed the  laptop. “What about the girl?” “She stays here tonight. Guest room  on the second floor. Her sister too.

” “Wait—” I started. Giovanni held up a hand, silencing me.  “This isn’t negotiable. Those men know   you work here. They know what you look  like. Until I’ve handled this situation,   you’re not walking home alone through my streets.” “I can’t just stay here. I have a  life. An apartment. Bills to pay.

” “Your bills will be there tomorrow.”  His tone brooked no argument. “Tonight,   you’re under my roof and  my protection. Accept it.” The word protection hung in the  air between us, weighted with   implications I wasn’t ready to examine. But  exhaustion and pain were catching up to me,   dragging at my bones until standing  felt like an insurmountable effort. “Fine,” I said. “One night.

” Giovanni’s expression shifted into something  that might have been satisfaction. “Franco,   make the arrangements. I want updates every hour.” Franco left, and I found myself alone  with Giovanni again. He watched me   with that unsettling intensity, like he  was cataloging every micro-expression. “Why do you work so hard?” he  asked suddenly. “The double shifts,   the overtime. Most people do  the minimum. You do everything.

” I debated lying, then decided he probably  already knew anyway. “Medical debt. My   mother died two years ago. Cancer.  The bills didn’t stop with her.” Understanding flickered across  his features. “How much?” “That’s not your concern.” “How much, Lauren?” The use of my name again.

Like he was trying it out,   testing how it felt in his mouth.  “Forty-seven thousand. Give or take.” He absorbed this information with a single nod.   “And you’re paying it off  on a housekeeper’s salary.” “I don’t have much choice.” “There’s always a choice.” He moved  to the window, stared out at the   darkening garden. “You could have declared  bankruptcy. Walked away from the debt.

” “That’s not who I am.” “No.” He glanced back at me. “It’s  not. You honor your obligations,   even when they’re destroying you. That’s rare.” Before I could respond, Brittany appeared  in the doorway, looking uncertain.   “Sorry to interrupt.

The housekeeper said I  should set up in the room next to Lauren’s?” “Yes.” Giovanni straightened. “Both of   you will stay tonight. Tomorrow  we’ll reassess the situation.” Brittany looked at me, eyebrows raised in  silent question. I gave her a tiny nod,   and she disappeared down the hallway. “I should go,” I said. “Let you work.” “One more thing.” Giovanni crossed to  his desk, wrote something on a notepad,   tore off the sheet and handed it to  me.

A phone number in bold, precise   handwriting. “My direct line. If anything  happens—anything—you call me immediately.” “Nothing’s going to happen. Your  house is practically a fortress.” “Nevertheless.” He closed my fingers  around the paper. “Keep it with you.” His hand lingered on mine for half  a second too long, warm and solid,   before he released me and stepped back.  The brief contact left my skin tingling.

“Thank you,” I managed. “Don’t thank me yet. The night isn’t over.” I left him there, standing in his study surrounded  by evidence of the violence he was planning,   and climbed the stairs to the guest  room where Brittany waited. She took   one look at my face and pulled me into  a careful hug, mindful of my injuries. “This is insane,” she whispered.

“I know.” “He’s going after them. For you.” “I know.” “Lauren, he’s—” “I know, Britt. I know what he is. I know  what he’s going to do.” I pulled back,   met her worried gaze. “And I can’t  bring myself to feel bad about it.” That admission hung between us, heavy with  implications neither of us wanted to voice.

Brittany helped me out of my work clothes, gasped  when she saw the full extent of the bruising   across my ribs and back. She didn’t say anything,  just grabbed pajamas from the dresser—silk,   expensive, left by some previous guest—and  helped me dress like I was made of glass. We sat together on the massive bed,  and I told her everything.

The attack,   Giovanni’s reaction, Franco’s investigation,  the security footage. She listened without   interruption, processing it all with the same  pragmatic calm she brought to everything. “So what happens now?” she finally asked. I thought about Giovanni’s cold  fury, Franco’s efficient violence,   the carefully controlled power that ran  through this house like electricity through   wires. Thought about how I should be terrified  but instead felt something closer to relief.

“Now,” I said, “we wait.” Through the window, night had fully  fallen. Somewhere in the city,   men with guns were hunting the people who’d  hurt me. And I was lying in silk pajamas   in a mansion, protected by someone  who commanded armies with a whisper. The world had shifted on its axis  in the span of a single afternoon,   and I suspected it would never  quite settle back into place.

Sleep refused to come. I lay in the unfamiliar  bed, staring at shadows that danced across the   ceiling, listening to Brittany’s steady  breathing from the adjacent room. Every   time I closed my eyes, I saw the footage  again—grainy images of myself being cornered,   attacked, left bleeding in the rain.

My ribs throbbed with each breath,   a metronome of pain keeping  time with my racing thoughts. Around two in the morning, I heard it. Voices,  low and urgent, drifting up from somewhere   below. Then the distinct sound of a heavy door  closing. Not slamming. Controlled. Deliberate. I should have stayed in bed. Should have  pulled the covers over my head and pretended   I heard nothing.

Instead, I found myself  padding barefoot across the plush carpet,   easing the bedroom door open with careful  silence. The hallway stretched before me,   illuminated by subtle floor lighting  that cast everything in shades of amber. The voices were coming from Giovanni’s study. My heart hammered as I crept down the stairs,  each step measured and quiet. I’d cleaned   these stairs dozens of times, knew which boards  creaked, which sections of railing were loose.

Now that knowledge served a different purpose  as I descended into the darkened first floor. Light spilled from beneath the study door,  a golden line against polished hardwood.   I approached it like approaching a wild  animal—slow, cautious, barely breathing.   The door stood slightly ajar, just wide enough  to see inside if I positioned myself correctly.

What I saw made my blood turn to ice. Two men knelt in the center of the room, hands  zip-tied behind their backs. I recognized them   immediately despite the blood on their faces—the  shaved head, the broader build of his companion.   The men who’d attacked me.

Franco stood to  one side, arms crossed, expression carved   from granite. Two other men I didn’t recognize  flanked the doorway, guns visible at their waists. And Giovanni sat in his leather chair,  perfectly still, watching the kneeling   men with the focused attention  of a predator studying prey. “I didn’t know, Mr. Moretti.” The shaved man—Cole,   Franco had called him—spoke rapidly,  words tumbling over each other.

“I swear,   we didn’t know she was yours. Krasniqi  just said to send a message. Make some   noise in your territory. We were supposed  to rough up a few people, nothing serious—” “Nothing serious.” Giovanni’s  voice was soft. Terrifyingly   soft. “You put your hands on someone under  my protection and call it nothing serious.

” “It was just supposed to be a warning. Show  we could reach into your streets whenever   we wanted.” Cole’s eyes darted between  Giovanni and Franco, searching for mercy   he wouldn’t find. “We weren’t supposed to  really hurt anyone bad. Just scare them.” “Scare them.” Giovanni stood slowly, each  movement precise and controlled.

He crossed   to stand directly in front of Cole, looking down  at the kneeling man. “Tell me something. When you   saw her uniform, when you realized she worked  in my home, what did you think would happen?” “I—we thought—” Cole stammered. “Krasniqi  said you’d back down. That you were getting   soft. That taking Brooklyn was making  you weak, spreading you too thin—” “Krasniqi was wrong.” Giovanni crouched,  bringing himself eye level with Cole.

“Do you know what she does here? She  cleans. She folds towels. She arranges   flowers. She’s twenty-seven years old,  working two shifts to pay off her dead   mother’s medical bills. And you beat her  unconscious in the rain for politics.” The silence that followed was absolute.  Even from my position by the door,   I could feel the weight of  it, heavy and suffocating.

Then Giovanni asked the question,  and my breath caught in my throat. “Who did this to you?” His voice was barely above a  whisper, but it carried more   menace than any scream could have. Each  word fell like a stone into still water,   creating ripples of dread  that spread through the room. “I did.” Cole’s voice broke.  “I did it.

Viktor held her,   but I hit her. I’m sorry,  Mr. Moretti, I’m so sorry—” “You’re sorry.” Giovanni didn’t move,  didn’t blink. “You’re sorry because   you got caught. Because you’re kneeling  here instead of sleeping peacefully in   whatever hole you crawled out of. You’re  sorry because you know what comes next.” He stood, turned his back on the kneeling  men, and walked to his desk.

The casual   dismissal was somehow more frightening  than any display of rage would have been. “Franco.” Giovanni’s tone shifted to  pure business. “Take them. Make it clean.   I want Krasniqi to receive a message,  but I don’t want bodies showing up in   the harbor creating problems with  the harbor police.

Understood?” “Understood.” Franco gestured to the other men,   who moved forward to haul  Cole and Viktor to their feet. “Wait—” Cole struggled against the hands gripping  his arms. “Please, Mr. Moretti, I have a family—” “So did she.” Giovanni didn’t turn around.  “Her mother died of cancer. Her sister works   in my kitchen.

She has people who  love her, people who depend on her,   just like you claim to have. The  difference is she never put her   hands on anyone. She just tried to go home  after working a double shift. Take them.” I retreated before I could see more, pressing  myself against the wall around the corner,   pulse pounding so hard I thought they’d hear  it.

Footsteps approached, and I held perfectly   still as Franco and his men led the prisoners  past, moving toward what I assumed was a back   exit. Cole was crying now, quiet desperate sobs  that made my stomach twist despite everything. The study door clicked shut. I waited until the  footsteps faded completely before creeping back   upstairs, my legs shaking so badly I  had to grip the railing for support.

Back in the guest room, I sat on the  edge of the bed, hands trembling.   I’d just watched Giovanni Moretti condemn  two men to death. Calmly, efficiently,   with less emotion than I’d use ordering coffee.  And the worst part—the part that should have   terrified me but instead left me feeling strangely  hollow—was that I couldn’t bring myself to care.

They’d beaten me unconscious. Left me bleeding  in an alley. And now they would pay for it. I should have felt guilt. Horror.  Some sort of moral revulsion at being   complicit in violence. Instead, I felt  nothing but a cold sort of satisfaction. Hours passed.

I watched through the window  as black SUVs pulled away from the house,   headlights cutting through the pre-dawn  darkness. Three vehicles, moving in formation,   carrying men with guns and zip-tied prisoners  to whatever fate Giovanni had ordained for them.   I wondered if I’d just become an  accessory to murder. Wondered if I cared. The sky was beginning to lighten  when a soft knock came at my door.

I’d thrown on a robe over the borrowed  pajamas, and when I opened the door,   Giovanni stood there holding two cups of  coffee. He looked tired—the first time I’d   ever seen even a hint of weariness  in his carefully controlled facade. “Did I wake you?” he asked. “I couldn’t sleep.” He nodded, unsurprised, and held  out one of the cups.

I took it,   our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.  The coffee was perfect—cream and sugar in   exactly the proportions I preferred.  Of course he knew. He knew everything. “Can I come in?” he asked. I stepped back, letting him enter.  He moved to the chair by the window,   the same one I’d been occupying for hours,  and I perched on the edge of the bed.

“What happened to them?” The question emerged  before I could second-guess asking it. Giovanni studied me over  the rim of his coffee cup,   dark eyes assessing. “They  paid for their mistake.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one you need.” His  voice was gentle but firm. “You   don’t want details, Lauren. Trust me on this.

” “How do you know what I want?” “Because I’ve seen that look before. The one  you’re wearing right now. The one that says   you’re trying to figure out if you should feel  guilty for not feeling guilty.” He set his cup on   the side table. “Don’t. Those men made choices.  They dealt in violence. They knew the risks.

” I sipped my coffee, letting  the warmth seep into my hands,   chase away some of the chill that had settled  into my bones. “I should be afraid of you.” “Probably.” “I’m not.” “I know.” He leaned forward, elbows on his  knees, and for a moment he looked less like a   crime boss and more like just a man carrying  heavy burdens. “How do you feel? Honestly.

” “My ribs hurt. My face hurts.  Everything hurts.” I touched   my swollen eye gingerly. “But safer  than I’ve felt since Thursday night.” Satisfaction flickered across his features, there  and gone. “Good. That’s what matters.” He stood,   crossed the space between us  in two strides. “Let me see.

” I tilted my face up, and his fingers brushed my  jaw, turning my head to catch the early morning   light streaming through the window. His touch  was careful, professional almost, but there   was something else underneath it. Something  that made my skin tingle and my breath catch. “The swelling’s gone down a little,” he  observed. “But you need a proper medical   evaluation. Dr. Caruso is expecting us at nine.

” “I can’t afford—” “I wasn’t asking about your finances.” His  thumb traced the edge of the bruise on my   cheekbone with unexpected gentleness.  “This happened because of me. Because   you work in my house, on my street.  That makes it my responsibility.” “That’s not how responsibility works.” “It is in my world.

” He withdrew his  hand, and I immediately missed the warmth   of it. “Get dressed. Wear something  comfortable. We leave in an hour.” He moved toward the door,   then paused, looking back at me with  an expression I couldn’t quite read. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly,  “you’re not just a maid to me. You never were.” Then he was gone, leaving me alone with  those words echoing in my head and coffee   growing cold in my hands.

Through the window,  full daylight was breaking over the city,   painting everything in shades of gold and rose. Somewhere out there, two men who’d hurt me were  facing consequences I couldn’t let myself imagine.   And here I sat, in a mansion that should feel  like a cage but instead felt like sanctuary,   drinking coffee made exactly how I liked it  by a man who commanded death with a whisper.

The world had shifted again overnight. And  sitting there in borrowed silk pajamas,   watching the sun rise over a city full of violence  and beauty, I realized I’d shifted with it. Giovanni insisted we leave within the hour,  and I didn’t have the energy to argue.   Brittany helped me dress in jeans and a soft  burgundy sweater she’d brought from our apartment,   moving around me with careful efficiency  while pointedly not mentioning the events   of the previous night. We both knew what had  happened. Neither of us wanted to say it aloud.

The SUV waiting outside was sleek and black,  windows tinted dark enough to hide whoever sat   inside. Giovanni held the back door open, and  I climbed in, biting back a gasp as my ribs   protested the movement. He slid in beside me—not  across from me, not in the front with a driver,   but right there in the back seat close enough  that I could smell cedar and expensive cologne. “You don’t need to come,” I said as he closed  the door.

“Just send me with Franco or—” “I’m coming.” Final. Absolute. He pulled the  SUV into traffic with the easy confidence of   someone who’d spent years navigating Manhattan  streets. “Dr. Caruso is expecting both of us.” The drive should have been awkward.  Instead, silence settled between us   like something almost comfortable.

I watched  the city slide past through tinted glass,   tried not to think about how much  a private medical visit would cost,   how many months of payments I’d be  adding to my already impossible debt. “Stop calculating,” Giovanni  said without looking at me. “I wasn’t—” “You were. I can practically hear you  doing math.” He glanced over briefly.   “Whatever you’re worried about,  don’t be. This isn’t your expense.

” “I can’t let you pay for—” “You’re not letting me do anything. I’m doing it  because someone was attacked on my street, in my   territory, wearing my household’s uniform. That  makes it my responsibility.” His hands tightened   fractionally on the steering wheel. “Besides, you  work for me. Consider it worker’s compensation.” “That’s not how worker’s comp works.” “It’s how mine does.” The clinic occupied the second floor of  an unremarkable building in Murray Hill.

No sign outside, no indication it was anything  other than offices. Giovanni led me through a   private entrance, up stairs I climbed slowly,  each step a fresh reminder of Thursday night. Dr. Caruso was perhaps sixty,  with silver hair and hands that   looked like they belonged to a surgeon.

He  examined my face with clinical detachment,   palpating the swelling around my  eye, checking my pupil responses. “No sign of orbital fracture,” he  said, making notes on a tablet.   “Significant soft tissue damage,  but it’ll heal. How’s your vision?” “Blurry in the left eye. But it’s getting better.” “Good. Now the ribs.” He gestured to an exam  table. “Shirt off. You can keep the bra on.

” I hesitated, acutely aware of  Giovanni standing against the wall,   watching. Dr. Caruso noticed my discomfort. “Mr. Moretti, perhaps—” “I’m staying.” Giovanni’s tone allowed no  argument. But he turned to face the window,   offering me that small privacy. I peeled off the sweater carefully, trying not to  gasp when the movement pulled at damaged tissue.

The bruises had ripened overnight into  spectacular shades of purple and yellow,   spreading across my left side  like some grotesque watercolor. Dr. Caruso’s professional mask slipped for just a  moment. “Christ.” Then he was all business again,   pressing carefully along my ribs.  When he reached the sixth one,   I couldn’t contain the sharp intake of breath.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Fractured,  probably. Let’s get an X-ray to confirm.” The portable machine emerged from a side room,  and for the next ten minutes I held various   uncomfortable positions while trying not to cry  from the pain. Giovanni had turned back around,   and I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight. The X-ray confirmed it: my sixth rib on the  left side had a clean break.

Not displaced,   which Dr. Caruso explained meant  it would heal without surgery,   but it would take time. Six weeks  minimum. He wrapped my torso in a   compression bandage that made breathing  easier, prescribed painkillers I knew I   couldn’t afford and anti-inflammatories  that would probably cost half my rent. “No heavy lifting,” he said, typing  prescriptions into his tablet. “No   strenuous exercise.

If the pain worsens or  you develop difficulty breathing, call me   immediately.” He glanced at Giovanni. “She needs  rest. Real rest, not working-through-it rest.” “She’ll rest.” Giovanni accepted the prescriptions  Dr. Caruso printed out. “I’ll make sure of it.” When Dr. Caruso went to press a button on  the exam table, adjusting it with more force   than necessary, I winced at the sudden jolt.  Giovanni was across the room in three strides.

“Careful.” Not a request. Not  quite a threat. Something in   between that made Dr. Caruso pause and nod. “Of course. My apologies.” The payment happened while I was getting  dressed, conducted in low voices I couldn’t   quite hear.

By the time I emerged from behind  the privacy screen, Giovanni was tucking his   wallet away and Dr. Caruso was handing me  a bag with prescriptions already filled. “You keep medications here?” I asked. “For special patients.” Dr. Caruso’s expression  suggested he didn’t want to elaborate. “Take   one of the white pills every six hours for  pain.

The blue ones are anti-inflammatory,   twice daily with food. Call if you need anything.” Back in the SUV, I stared at the prescription  bag in my lap. “How much did that cost?” “Not your concern.” “Giovanni—” “Lauren.” He turned to face me fully, one  hand draped over the steering wheel. “Let   me ask you something.

If Brittany  had been attacked the way you were,   if she’d been beaten unconscious in my territory,  would you want her worrying about medical bills?” “That’s different.” “How?” I opened my mouth, closed it. Couldn’t  find an answer that didn’t sound hollow. “You’ve worked in my house for eight months,”  he continued, voice softer now. “I know things   about you. How you organize the library books  by author even though no one asked you to. How   you fold the newspapers so the headlines face  up.

How you water the orchids every Tuesday   because they need consistent care.” He paused.  “How you never complain, never ask for anything,   just show up and do your job with the kind of  quiet competence most people wouldn’t notice.” “You noticed.” The words came  out barely above a whisper. “He glanced my way once, a quiet  admission: “I notice things, Lauren.” The drive back to the mansion passed in silence,  but it felt different than before. Charged.

Like   something unspoken was building between us,  pressing against the confines of the car. When we arrived, Giovanni ordered me to  rest for the remainder of the weekend.   No work, no cleaning, just recovery.  Brittany appeared with tea and soup,   fussing over me like a mother hen  until I reminded her I was the older   sister. But even as I protested, warmth  spread through my chest at her concern.

What surprised me was Giovanni. Throughout  Saturday and Sunday, he materialized at odd   intervals—always with some excuse, always  brief, but present. He brought food when   Brittany was busy in the kitchen. Checked that  I’d taken my medication. Adjusted pillows when he   caught me wincing.

Each interaction was careful,  controlled, but underneath the careful control I   sensed something else. Something that made my  pulse quicken whenever he entered the room. Sunday evening, I found myself on the terrace.  The same one I’d cleaned dozens of times,   admiring the garden below while scrubbing  furniture I’d never expected to actually sit on.   Now I occupied one of the wrought-iron chairs,   wrapped in a blanket against October  chill, watching the sun set over the city.

Giovanni emerged from the house carrying two  glasses and a cigar. He handed me one glass—tea,   prepared exactly how I liked it—and  settled into the chair beside mine. “How do you feel?” he asked, lighting  the cigar with practiced ease. “Sore. But better.” I sipped the tea, let the  warmth seep into my hands. “The medication helps.

” “Good.” He exhaled smoke that  curled into the evening air,   dissipating into twilight. “Dr. Caruso says  you’ll heal completely. No permanent damage.” “Physically, anyway.” He turned to look at me, really look at  me, dark eyes searching. “Are you afraid?” “Of what?” “Going back out there.  Walking those streets again.” I considered the question seriously.

Was I afraid?   Thursday night played on repeat  in my mind—the rain, the alley,   the hands grabbing me. But underneath the  fear was something else. Something harder. “No,” I said finally. “I’m angry.” “Good. Anger is useful. Fear makes  you weak. Anger makes you sharp.” We sat in comfortable silence, watching the sky  turn from gold to purple to deep blue.

Finally,   I asked the question that had  been building since Friday. “Why did you take over your father’s business?  You could have done anything. Been anything.” Giovanni was quiet so long I thought he  wouldn’t answer. Then, “My father died   when I was twenty-two. Heart attack, sudden and  violent.

He left me an empire built over forty   years and two hundred families who depended on  us for work, protection, justice the law wouldn’t   provide.” He studied the cigar, watching the ember  glow. “I could have walked away. Sold everything,   moved to Europe, lived off the money. But  those families would have been absorbed   by rivals or left to fend for themselves  in a city that doesn’t forgive weakness.

” “So you chose responsibility over freedom.” “I chose honor over ease.” He glanced at  me. “What about you? Why do you work so   hard? The double shifts, the overtime.  It’s more than just making ends meet.” The medical debt. The number that haunted me.

I  took a breath, felt it pull at my wrapped ribs,   and told him. About my mother’s cancer.  The treatments that promised hope but   delivered only more pain. The bills that  arrived after her funeral like accusations.   Forty-seven thousand dollars in  debt that would follow me for years. Giovanni listened without interruption, without  judgment. When I finished, he simply nodded.

“That kind of debt, it’s designed to be  impossible,” he said. “They know most   people will pay minimum amounts forever, feeding  the interest machine. It’s legal extortion.” “Maybe. But it’s still mine to pay.” “Because you honor your  obligations.” The way he said it,   like it was a virtue instead of  a burden, made my throat tight. Night had fully fallen now, stars  emerging overhead despite the city lights.

Giovanni reached over and adjusted the  blanket that had slipped from my shoulder,   his fingers brushing my neck  with unexpected gentleness. “You should rest,” he said. “Tomorrow  we’ll discuss longer-term arrangements.” “Arrangements?” “You’re not going back to walking home alone  at night. Not for a while.

” He stood, stubbing   out the cigar. “We’ll figure something  out that doesn’t make you feel caged.” He left me there on the terrace, the city  spread out below like a glittering promise. And   for the first time since Thursday night, I felt  something other than pain or anger. I felt seen.   Protected. Like maybe, impossibly, I mattered  to someone who could move mountains with a word.

Monday morning arrived with news that rippled  through the mansion like an earthquake.  On Monday after lunch, Brittany cornered me  by the break room. “Did you file the report?”   she asked. I told her the truth—Franco’s  men had already turned the attackers over   to Giovanni. Walking into a precinct with  his name on my bruises felt like painting   a target on my back. HR logged an internal  incident instead, and Rosa made me sign it.

It   wasn’t justice, but it was safer—for now. I heard it first from the housekeeper,   Rosa I needed to avoid that name. I heard  it first from Rosa, the head housekeeper,   who whispered to another staff member  in the hallway outside Giovanni’s study. Three Albanian establishments hit over the  weekend.

A gambling operation in Queens,   a restaurant that fronted money laundering in  Brooklyn, and a warehouse near the docks that   everyone knew stored contraband. No one  killed, but the message was unmistakable:   Giovanni Moretti had responded to the  attack on me with surgical precision. I returned to work despite Brittany’s  protests and my body’s screaming objections.

The compression wrap around my ribs made breathing  easier, but every deep inhale reminded me of   Thursday night. Every time I turned too quickly,  pain flared along my left side like lightning. Giovanni found me in the second-floor hallway,   polishing a mirror I could  barely reach without gasping. “What are you doing?” His  voice was low, controlled,   but I heard the displeasure underneath.

“My job.” “You’re supposed to be resting.” “I’ve rested all weekend. I need to  work.” I kept my focus on the mirror,   watching his reflection rather than turning  to face him. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” He crossed the space between us in three strides,   took the cleaning cloth from my hand,  and set it aside. “No heavy lifting.

No reaching above your head. No bending that  makes you wince like you’re being stabbed.” “I wasn’t—” “I watched you climb these stairs. You gripped  the railing like it was the only thing keeping   you upright.” His dark eyes searched my  face. “You’re wearing the compression wrap?” “Yes.” “Taking the medication?” “Every six hours, just like Dr. Caruso said.

” “Good.” He retrieved the cloth, handed  it back. “Light work only. If I catch   you doing anything strenuous, I’m  sending you home. Understood?” “Understood.” But he didn’t leave. Just stood there,  studying me with that intensity that   made my pulse quicken for reasons  that had nothing to do with fear. “How’s the pain? On a scale of one to ten.

” “Four. Maybe five when I move wrong.” “That’s better than Saturday.” “It’s healing.” I gestured vaguely  toward the stairs. “I should finish—” “Have you eaten today?” The question caught me off guard. “What?” “Breakfast. Did you eat anything?” “Coffee. I had coffee.” His expression suggested coffee  didn’t count as food. “Come with me.

” He led me downstairs to the kitchen where  Brittany was prepping vegetables for lunch.   She looked up when we entered, eyebrows rising  when she saw Giovanni personally escorting me. “Your sister needs to eat,” he told Brittany.  “Make sure she does. Regularly. Not just coffee.” “Yes, sir,” Brittany said, fighting a smile. Giovanni left, and the moment the door  swung shut, Brittany rounded on me.

“He personally checked if you ate breakfast?” “Apparently.” “Lauren, he’s never done that  for anyone. Ever. In two years,   I’ve never seen him ask a staff  member about their meal schedule.” “He’s just making sure I recover properly.  Because I got hurt in his territory.” “Keep telling yourself that.” She pushed a plate   of pastries toward me. “Eat. Before  he comes back and lectures us both.

” The week that followed established a new  pattern I couldn’t quite make sense of.   Giovanni appeared at odd moments—when I  was dusting the library, organizing linens,   watering the orchids I’d tended for  months without him noticing. Each time,   he’d pause. Ask how I felt. Adjust a pillow  if he saw me sitting.

Bring coffee prepared   exactly how I liked it, even though  I’d never told him my preferences. Other staff members noticed.  I caught curious glances,   heard whispers that stopped when I entered  rooms.

But no one said anything directly,   and I tried to pretend the attention from  one of Manhattan’s most dangerous men was   completely normal and not at all making my  heart race every time he walked into a room. Franco appeared Tuesday afternoon while  I was folding towels in the linen closet,   moving carefully to avoid  pulling at my healing rib. “He’s different with you,”  Franco said without preamble. I jumped, nearly dropping the  towel. “I didn’t hear you come in.

” “That’s the idea.” He leaned against the  doorframe, arms crossed. “I’ve known Giovanni   since he was twenty-two. Watched him build  this organization from the ground up after   his father died. He doesn’t let people  in. Doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t care   about the small details of anyone’s life  unless it serves a strategic purpose.

” “What’s your point?” “My point is he knows how you take your coffee.  He noticed when you changed the way you organize   his books. He personally drove you to the doctor  That night, I rewrapped the bandage exactly the   way Dr. Caruso had shown me and set an alarm for  the next dose; six weeks sounded like a lifetime,   so I started by surviving the next twelve hours.  and sat there while you got examined.

” Franco’s   expression was unreadable. “That’s  not strategy. That’s something else.” “He’s just being responsible. I  got hurt because of his business.” “Sure. Keep believing that if it  helps you sleep at night.” Franco   pushed off the doorframe. “But when this gets  complicated—and it will—remember I warned you.

” He left before I could respond,  and I stood there holding towels   and trying to ignore the way my  pulse had quickened at his words. Thursday night, a week after the attack, I  found myself alone in the library. Giovanni had   asked me to organize some new acquisitions he’d  received, and I’d been arranging them by author   when the sun set and the house quieted around  me.

My bruises had faded to yellowish shadows,   barely visible unless you knew where to look. The  swelling around my eye had disappeared entirely.   But my rib still ached when I breathed too deeply,  a constant reminder that I wasn’t quite healed. I was shelving a leather-bound collection of  Italian poetry when I heard footsteps behind me. “You’re working late.”  Giovanni’s voice, low and close.

I turned, found him standing just  inside the doorway, jacket removed,   shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. The sight  of him like that—slightly disheveled, guard   partially lowered—did something to my insides  that I absolutely shouldn’t have been feeling. “Finishing what you asked me to do,” I said,   gesturing to the books. “These are beautiful  editions. First printings, some of them.

” “My grandfather’s collection. He left them  to me when he died.” Giovanni moved closer,   examining the spines I’d arranged. “You organized  them chronologically within each author.” “It seemed to make sense. Track  the evolution of their work.” “Most people would have just done alphabetical.” “I’m not most people.” “No.” His eyes met mine, and the intensity  in them made my breath catch. “You’re not.

” The silence stretched between us,  charged with something I couldn’t name   but felt everywhere. In the air. In the  narrowing space between our bodies. In   the way his gaze dropped briefly to  my mouth before returning to my eyes. “I can’t stop thinking  about you,” he said finally,   voice rough. “Since that night. Since  I saw what they did.

Since I realized   you’ve been here for eight months and  I’d been too blind to really see you.” My throat went dry. “Giovanni—” “Tell me you don’t feel it.  Tell me I’m imagining this,   and I’ll walk away. Leave you  alone. But tell me honestly.” I should have lied. Should have protected  both of us from whatever this was.

Instead,   the truth came out in a whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about you either.” He closed the distance between us in one  step, his hand coming up to cup my face   with surprising gentleness. His thumb traced  the faded shadow of the bruise on my cheekbone. “I’m not a good man, Lauren. I do terrible things   to maintain power and protect what’s mine.  You deserve better than what I can offer.

” “Maybe I don’t want better. Maybe I want this.” The kiss happened like inevitability.  Soft at first, questioning, his lips   against mine testing boundaries neither of us had  acknowledged existed. When I didn’t pull away,   when my hands came up to grip his shirt,  it deepened.

His other hand found my waist,   careful to avoid my injured ribs, and I tasted  coffee and something darker, more dangerous. Heat flooded through me, erasing rational  thought. This was Giovanni Moretti—crime boss,   killer, the man who’d ordered deaths with  the same ease most people ordered dinner.

And I was kissing him in his library  while the city sprawled below us,   oblivious to how my world  had just tilted on its axis. His phone buzzed violently in  his pocket. We broke apart,   both breathing hard. He pulled out the device,  read the screen, and cursed softly in Italian. “I have to go. Franco needs me.” But he hesitated,   looking at me with an expression I’d never  seen before. “This conversation isn’t over.

” “No,” I agreed. “It’s not.” He kissed me once more, quick  and fierce, then was gone. I stood there for several minutes, fingers pressed  to my lips, trying to process what had just   happened. When I finally made it back to the guest  room I’d been occupying, Brittany was waiting. She took one look at my face and knew. “You kissed him.” “He kissed me. I think. Maybe I  kissed him. It was mutual kissing.

” “Oh my God.” She pulled me to sit  on the bed. “Lauren, this is—” “Insane. I know.” “I was going to say dangerous. But insane  works too.” She studied me carefully.   “Are you okay with this? Because once you  start something with a man like Giovanni,   there’s no going back to being invisible.” I thought about his hands on my face.  His voice admitting he couldn’t stop   thinking about me.

The way he’d  protected me without hesitation,   without question, like my safety  was worth starting a war over. “I don’t think I want to be  invisible anymore,” I admitted. Brittany pulled me into a careful hug,   mindful of my ribs. “Then hold on tight.  Because this is going to change everything.” Through the window, I could see the  city lights spreading toward the   horizon.

Somewhere out there, Giovanni  was handling whatever emergency Franco   had called him for. Making decisions  that would ripple through the criminal   underworld. Maintaining power through  calculated violence and careful strategy. And when he came back, we’d have to figure  out what this thing between us meant. How a   maid and a mafia boss could possibly navigate  feelings that defied every logical boundary.

But for now, I sat with Brittany in comfortable  silence, touching my lips where Giovanni’s kiss   still burned, and let myself feel something  other than pain or fear or exhaustion. I let myself feel wanted.

The days following that first kiss blurred into  something I’d never experienced before—a secret   carved out of stolen moments. Giovanni would find  me in empty corridors, pull me into unused rooms,   kiss me until my knees weakened and my carefully  constructed boundaries dissolved. We talked in   hushed voices after everyone else had gone  home, conversations that stretched into early   morning hours about everything and nothing.

His childhood in Naples before his family   immigrated. My mother’s final months. The weight  of inheriting empires neither of us had asked for. My rib still ached when I moved wrong,   a constant reminder that I wasn’t  fully healed. But the pain was fading,   becoming background noise instead of the main  event.

Three weeks had passed since the attack,   and the bruises had disappeared entirely. Only the  fractured rib remained, sensitive but improving. Brittany caught us one evening in the kitchen.  She’d come back for something she’d forgotten,   and found me pressed against the  counter with Giovanni’s mouth on mine,   his hands careful on my waist, avoiding  the compression wrap I still wore. “Oh my God,” she breathed.

We broke apart. Giovanni didn’t  look remotely embarrassed,   just slightly inconvenienced by the  interruption. I felt heat flood my face. “Britt—” “No, it’s fine. I just—” She looked between us,   processing. “Okay. This is happening.  This is actually happening.” “Are you upset?” I asked.

She studied Giovanni with the  same critical eye she’d used   to evaluate my boyfriends since we were  teenagers. “Are you going to hurt her?” “No.” Simple. Absolute. “Are you going to get her killed because  someone wants to hurt you through her?” “I’d burn this city to the ground first.” Brittany absorbed this, then nodded  once. “Okay then. But Lauren,   we’re talking about this later. Extensively.” She left, and Giovanni pulled me  back against him, this time gentler.

“Your sister is terrifying,”  he murmured against my hair. “She’s protective.” “So am I.” Franco cornered me two days later  while I was organizing the study.   “He’s different because of you. Lighter  somehow. I’ve known him twelve years,   and I’ve never seen him smile like  he does when you walk into a room.” “Is that a problem?” “Depends.

Can you handle what  comes with being his weakness?”   Franco’s expression was serious.  “Because that’s what you are now,   Lauren. The thing people will use to hurt  him. The leverage. The pressure point.” “I know what I’m getting into.” “Do you?” He didn’t sound convinced. “This  world doesn’t do casual. There’s no halfway   with someone like Giovanni. You’re either all  in, or you walk away now before it’s too late.

” “I’m all in.” He studied me for a long moment, then  nodded. “Good. He needs someone worth   fighting for. Someone who reminds him  he’s still human underneath all the rest.” Three weeks to the day after I’d been attacked,   Giovanni told me to dress nicely for dinner. Not  work clothes. Something that made a statement.

I borrowed a dress from Brittany—deep  emerald that brought out my eyes,   fitted but not uncomfortable with the  compression wrap underneath. Giovanni   appeared at my door wearing a suit  that probably cost more than my car,   his dark hair perfectly styled, and those  whiskey eyes heating when they landed on me.

“Beautiful,” he said simply. The restaurant was elegant Italian,  the kind with cloth napkins and   wine lists thicker than novels. We were  escorted to a private room in the back,   and my stomach dropped when  I saw who was already seated. A man in his fifties, heavy-set, with  scars cutting through his left eyebrow   and down his cheek. Two bodyguards flanked him,  stone-faced and watchful. This had to be Krasniqi.

“Mr. Moretti.” The man stood, offering  his hand. Giovanni shook it with the   bare minimum of courtesy. “And this must be  the young lady who caused all the trouble.” “Lauren,” Giovanni said, his hand  finding the small of my back,   “this is Arben Krasniqi. We’re  here to establish new boundaries.

” Krasniqi’s eyes tracked over  me with unsettling interest,   like he was cataloging weaknesses. “Please,  sit. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering wine.” The dinner was a masterclass in veiled  threats disguised as polite conversation.   Krasniqi offered compensation for the “unfortunate  incident”—fifty thousand dollars, he said, as if   that price tag could erase what his men had done.  Giovanni’s refusal was ice-cold and absolute.

“I don’t want your money. I want your  word. No member of your organization   touches anyone connected to me. Not my staff,  not my businesses, not the people who live in   my territory. You overstep those boundaries again,  and we stop pretending this is about diplomacy.” “That’s quite an ultimatum, Mr. Moretti.” “It’s not an ultimatum. It’s a statement  of fact.

” Giovanni’s voice never rose,   never wavered. “You wanted to test me. See if  I’d gone soft. Consider the test concluded.   Three of your operations shut down in one  weekend. That was restraint. Push me again,   and I’ll show you what happens  when I stop being restrained.” Krasniqi’s jaw tightened,  but he nodded. “Understood.   Your territory remains yours.  Your people remain untouched.” “Good.” Giovanni stood, helping me to my  feet. “Then we have nothing more to discuss.

” In the car afterward, I finally released the  breath I’d been holding. “That was terrifying.” “That was necessary.” Giovanni’s hand  found mine, lacing our fingers together.   “He needed to see you’re not just staff. He  needed to understand what you mean to me.” “And what do I mean to you?” He looked at me then, something raw and unguarded   in his expression. “Everything I  shouldn’t want and can’t give up.

” Back at the mansion, reality settled in. Giovanni  explained what Krasniqi’s interest meant—I was now   a known weakness, a target anyone wanting to  hurt him would identify. He wanted me to move   into the mansion permanently. Accept bodyguards.  Let him control every movement for my safety. “No.” The word came out harder than I  intended. “I’m not becoming a prisoner,   Giovanni. I won’t live in a gilded  cage because your world is dangerous.

” “You think I’m trying to cage you?”  Frustration bled into his voice.   “I’m trying to keep you alive.” “By taking away my choices. By  making every decision for me.” “By protecting what’s mine.” “I’m not property.” We stood in his study, tension crackling between  us like lightning.

His hands curled into fists   at his sides, jaw tight with the effort of  controlling his temper. Finally, he exhaled. “Then what do you suggest? Because  doing nothing isn’t an option.” We compromised. I kept the apartment with  Brittany, maintained my independence,   but accepted discreet security when  I went out at night. A driver when I   worked late. Parameters that made him feel I  was protected without making me feel owned.

“I need you to understand something,”  I said quietly. “I’m choosing this.   Choosing you. But I need to choose  it, not have it forced on me.” “I understand.” He crossed to me,  cupped my face with both hands.   “I’m not used to caring about anyone  this much. It makes me irrational.” “You? Irrational?” I smiled  despite everything. “Shocking.

” He kissed me then, deep and desperate, like  he was trying to convince himself I was real   and choosing to stay. When we broke apart, both  breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine. “Stay with me tonight,” he said.  “Not in the guest room. With me.” I nodded, unable to form words around  the want constricting my throat. His bedroom was a revelation—sparse but elegant,  dominated by an enormous bed with dark linens.

He undressed me slowly, carefully, mindful of  the compression wrap I still wore. His fingers   traced the fading shadows where bruises had been,  the edge of the wrap protecting my healing rib. “Does it still hurt?” he asked. “Sometimes. When I breathe  too deep or move wrong.” “Then we’ll be careful.” We were.

His hands mapped my body with reverence  and restraint, learning what made me gasp,   what made me arch into his touch. I traced the  tattoos I’d glimpsed before—a raven across his   shoulder blade, Italian script along his ribs,  symbols I didn’t understand but felt the weight   of. His scars told stories he whispered  in the dark: a knife fight at nineteen,   a bullet at twenty-three, burns  from a warehouse fire at twenty-six. “You’ve survived so much,” I breathed.

“So have you.” He kissed the spot  where my bruise had been, then lower,   tracing the edge of my wrap. “You survived what  should have broken you and came back stronger.” When he finally moved over me, positioning  himself with careful attention to my injury,   I felt completely seen. Completely known.

We moved  together slowly, building heat that had nothing   to do with rough passion and everything  to do with connection. With choice. With   two people who’d found each other in impossible  circumstances and decided the risk was worth it. Afterward, wrapped in his arms with my head  on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow,   I felt something I hadn’t felt  since before my mother died. Safe. “I meant what I said,” Giovanni murmured into my  hair. “I’d burn this city down to keep you safe.

” “I know.” I traced circles on his chest,  feeling the steady rise and fall of his   breathing. “That’s what scares me. And what  makes me feel protected at the same time.” “Then we’ll figure it out together. Make  rules that work for both of us. Build   something that doesn’t require  you to sacrifice who you are.

” Outside the windows, the city sprawled beneath us,   glittering and dangerous and alive. Somewhere out  there, Krasniqi was calculating his next move.   Other enemies waited in shadows. The world  Giovanni inhabited would always carry risk. But lying there in his bed, his hand gentle  on my healing ribs, I realized I’d already   made my choice. Not because he’d forced  me. Not because I had no other options.

Because for the first time in years,  I wanted something more than survival.   I wanted this—complicated,  dangerous, impossible as it was. And I was willing to fight for it. Six weeks. That’s how long it took  for my body to remember what normal   felt like. Dr. Caruso confirmed it on  a Tuesday morning in early December,   unwrapping the compression bandage I’d worn like a  second skin and pressing carefully along my ribs.

“No tenderness?” he asked. “None.” “Deep breath.” I inhaled fully, felt my chest expand without the   sharp reminder of fractured  bone. “It doesn’t hurt.” “Good. You’re cleared for normal activity. No  restrictions.” He made notes on his tablet.   “The bone has healed completely. You got  lucky—clean break, no complications.

” Lucky. I supposed that was one way to describe  surviving an attack that should have killed me. Giovanni waited in the lobby, and when I emerged,   his eyes scanned my face for  signs of pain out of habit. “All clear,” I said. “Officially healed.” Relief crossed his features, there and gone in a  heartbeat. “Then we celebrate tonight. Properly.

” Celebration came in the form of dinner at  a quiet French restaurant where the staff   knew not to disturb us and the wine list  was older than I was. Giovanni ordered for   both of us in flawless French, and  I watched him across candlelight,   still adjusting to this version of us—out  in public, together, no longer hiding.

“I have something for you,” he said after dessert  arrived. He slid an envelope across the table. Inside was a single document. Employment  contract. Personal assistant to Giovanni   Moretti. Salary that made my breath  catch—triple what I’d been making,   with benefits that included health  insurance I could actually use.

“Giovanni, this is—” “Fair compensation for your work. You’ve been  managing my schedule, organizing correspondence,   handling things that would take me hours.”  He sipped his wine. “You’ve earned it.” I stared at the numbers, doing  rapid math. With this salary,   I could pay off the medical debt  in two years instead of ten.

Could afford an apartment that didn’t  have mold in the bathroom. Could breathe. “There’s a signing bonus included in your first   paycheck,” he added casually.  “Should arrive next week.” I looked up sharply. “How much?” “Enough to handle any  outstanding financial concerns.” The medical debt. He was talking about the medical  debt. My throat tightened.

“You can’t just—” “I didn’t ask your permission. Consider  it a Christmas bonus.” His expression   dared me to argue. “You work for me. I take  care of my people. That’s how this works.” I should have protested. Should have maintained  some pride about handling my own obligations.   Instead, I felt something crack open in my  chest—relief so profound it almost hurt.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Don’t thank me. Just keep doing what you’re  doing. Keep being exactly who you are.” The following week, I discovered he’d been  telling the truth. My paycheck included a   bonus that covered every cent of the forty-seven  thousand dollars I’d been drowning under for   two years.

I stared at my bank account, at  the zero balance where debt used to live,   and cried in Brittany’s arms  for twenty minutes straight. “He paid off your medical bills,” Brittany  said, stating the obvious while I soaked her   shoulder with tears. “Giovanni Moretti, crime  boss, paid off your dead mother’s cancer debt.” “I know.” “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve  ever heard and also completely insane.

” “I know that too.” Our relationship settled into a pattern that  felt sustainable. I spent three nights a week   at the mansion, four at the apartment  with Brittany. Maintained my own space,   my own life, while building something  new with Giovanni that didn’t require   me to disappear into his world completely.

He gave me access to his private spaces,   his thoughts, his vulnerabilities. I gave  him honesty, boundaries, and the kind of   devotion that came from choosing him every  day rather than being forced into compliance. The underworld noticed. Word spread that  Giovanni Moretti had a woman—not a mistress,   not a plaything, something else  entirely. Someone he listened to.

Someone who influenced his decisions in ways  that made rivals nervous and allies curious. Franco cornered me one afternoon in  Giovanni’s study. “Krasniqi’s dead.” I looked up from the correspondence  I’d been organizing. “What?” “Internal war. His nephew made  a play for leadership. It got   bloody. Krasniqi didn’t survive.” Franco  leaned against the desk.

“His territory is   up for grabs. We could expand into  Queens, take everything he built.” “Does Giovanni know?” “He’s the first person I told. After you.” Giovanni appeared in the doorway moments  later, and Franco repeated the news. I   watched Giovanni process the information,  saw the calculation happening behind his   eyes. Territory meant power. Power meant  security. It was how this world worked.

“No,” Giovanni said finally. Franco blinked. “No?” “We’re not expanding. Our current territory  is stable, profitable, manageable. Taking   Queens would stretch resources and create  new enemies.” He glanced at me, something   passing between us. “I’d rather have what I can  protect than grasp for everything I might lose.

” After Franco left, I crossed to  Giovanni. “That was because of me.” “That was because I’m tired of  building empires at the expense   of having a life.” He pulled me against  him. “You made me realize I can choose   differently. Choose sustainability over  endless expansion. Choose what matters.” “And what matters?” “You. This. Keeping what I have  instead of always wanting more.

” That evening, I had dinner with Brittany  at our apartment. Takeout from the Thai   place down the street, eaten directly from  containers while we sat on our worn couch,   the way we’d done a thousand  times before everything changed. “So,” Brittany said, twirling noodles around her   fork. “You’re really doing  this. The mafia boss thing.” “The mafia boss thing,” I confirmed.

“Are you happy?” The question was simple but weighted  with everything unsaid. Was I happy   despite the danger? Despite the  complications? Despite knowing   I’d attached myself to someone whose  world operated by different rules? “Yes,” I said. “Genuinely, surprisingly happy.

” “And you feel safe? Because  Lauren, if you don’t feel safe—” “I feel safer than I have in  years.” I set down my container,   met her eyes. “I know it sounds crazy. I  know what he is, what he does. But Britt,   when I’m with him, I feel protected. Seen.  Like I matter in a way I never have before.” She studied me for a long moment, then  nodded. “Then I’m happy for you.

Worried,   but happy.” She pulled me into a hug.  “You deserve to be cared for the way   you care for everyone else. Even if  it comes from an unexpected source.” “Thank you. For supporting this. For not  making me choose between you and him.” “You’re my sister. I support you even  when you make questionable life choices   involving dangerous criminals.” She squeezed  tighter. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.

” “Always.” Two days later, Giovanni woke me before  dawn. I’d been sleeping in his bed,   wrapped in sheets that smelled like cedar and  him, and his hand on my shoulder was gentle. “Come with me,” he said. I followed him through the quiet  mansion, both of us barefoot,   me still in his t-shirt that fell to  mid-thigh.

He led me to the terrace—the   same one where we’d sat weeks ago, where I’d  been wrapped in blankets and healing. Now I   stood beside him in the predawn cold,  watching the sky lighten at the edges. “I want to show you something,” he said,   gesturing toward the city spread below us. “This  is what I see every morning.

Power, territory,   an empire my grandfather started and my father  built and I’ve spent twelve years maintaining.” “It’s beautiful.” “It’s a responsibility.” He turned to face me.  “For years, that’s all it was. Duty. Obligation.   The weight of two hundred families depending on  decisions I made. Then you walked into my life   wearing a gray work shirt with bruises you tried  to hide, and suddenly the city looked different.

” My throat tightened. “Different how?” “Worth protecting for different reasons.  Not just territory or power, but because   it’s where you live. Where you walk. Where we  built something impossible that somehow works.” The sun broke over the horizon, painting  everything gold and rose. I touched my   left side where the fracture had been,  felt nothing but smooth ribs beneath my   skin. Six weeks ago, every breath had hurt.  Now I breathed easily, deeply, without fear.

“Do you ever regret it?” Giovanni asked quietly.  “How we started? The violence, the complications?” I thought about Thursday night six  weeks ago. The rain, the alley,   the fear. Thought about waking up in this mansion,  being seen for the first time in months. The kiss   in the library. The way he’d protected  me without asking for anything in return. “No,” I said honestly. “I wouldn’t change  any of it. The attack brought me to you.

The violence made you notice me.  Everything terrible led to this.” “That’s a dangerous way to think.” “Maybe. But it’s true.” I turned to face  him fully. “We were built on danger,   Giovanni. That’s our foundation. But  we’re sustained by choice. By deciding   every day that this—whatever  this is—is worth the risk.

” He cupped my face with both hands,  thumbs tracing my cheekbones where   bruises used to be. Then he bent to kiss  the spot on my left side where the sixth   rib had been fractured. A promise made  flesh—that he’d protect what was his,   honor what we’d built, choose me  as deliberately as I’d chosen him. “I love you,” he said against my skin. “I don’t  say that lightly. But I need you to know.

” “I love you too.” The words came  easily, naturally. “Even though   you’re complicated and dangerous and you  do terrible things to maintain power.” “Especially because of that?” “Maybe a little.” We stood together as the city woke beneath us, two  people who’d found each other through impossible   circumstances and built something that defied  every logical boundary.

His world would always   carry risk. Mine would always be complicated by  association. But standing there in dawn light,   his arms around me and the city sprawling below, I  realized I’d stopped surviving and started living. The medical debt was gone. My body had  healed. And I’d found something I never   expected in a mansion I’d only meant to clean—a  man who saw me completely and chose me anyway.

“Ready to face the day?” Giovanni asked. I leaned into him, felt his heart beating  steady against my back. “With you? Always.”