She Bandaged The Mafia Boss’s Wounds — Next Day, 200 Of His Men Surrounded Her House

 

Block one, blood and shadows. The night shift at Mercy General always smelled the same. Antiseptic overlaying the metallic tang of blood, stale coffee, and desperation. I’d grown used to it over my 3 years as an ER nurse.

 But tonight, the smell of copper was stronger, clinging to my scrubs despite the thorough handwashing ritual I performed between patients. Emma, you’re up. Curtain four. Dr. Patel slid a chart across the nurse’s station counter without looking up from his phone. My shoulders achd from the double shift. 12 hours had stretched into 16 and exhaustion pulled at my bones like gravity. I’d been planning to call it a night, but we were perpetually understaffed.

 And saying no wasn’t really an option. Not when I had rent due in 3 days and barely enough in my account to cover it. What is it? I asked, flipping through the sparse notes. male, laceration, possible GSW. He’s refusing to see a doctor. Dr. Patel finally glanced up. Just clean him up and get him out. The waiting room’s backing up. I nodded, gathering supplies from the cart.

 Another Friday night, another parade of drunks, fights, and accidents. The curtain in bay 4 was drawn tight. Unusual for our overcrowded ER where privacy was a luxury we rarely afforded our patients. I knocked twice on the metal frame. Hello, I’m Emma, your nurse for tonight. The silence that followed made my skin prickle. I pushed the curtain back a few inches and froze.

Three men occupied the small space. Two stood on either side of the gurnie like sentinels, wearing identical black suits despite the summer heat. Their postures were rigid, hands clasped before them, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses that had no place in a fluorescent lit hospital at 2:00 a.m.

 But it was the third man who drew my gaze like a magnet pulling iron filings. He sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, one hand pressed against his side, where crimson bloomed through an expensive white shirt. His jacket, which probably cost more than 6 months of my rent, was folded neatly beside him, unmarred by whatever violence had torn into his flesh. I requested a doctor. His voice was low, accented with something I couldn’t place.

 Italian maybe, or Russian, smooth like aged whiskey with an undercurrent of gravel. I stepped fully into the space, letting the curtain fall closed behind me. I’m sorry, sir, but I’m what you’ve got tonight. I assure you, I’m fully qualified to treat lacerations. His eyes lifted to mine, and I nearly took a step back.

 They were the color of Arctic ice, pale blue, almost colorless in the harsh hospital lighting. His face was all angles and shadows, jaw clean shaven, dark hair combed back from a high forehead, handsome in the way predators are handsome, beautiful in their danger. “Leave us,” he said. And for a confused moment, I thought he was speaking to me.

 The two men in suits exchanged glances before one spoke. Sir, we should now. A single word, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. They left without another word, slipping through the curtain with surprising grace for men built like brick walls. I cleared my throat, suddenly conscious of being alone with him. I need to see the wound.

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze dissecting me as thoroughly as any scalpel. I fought the urge to fidget under the scrutiny. “Your hands are shaking,” he observed. I looked down. He was right. I curled my fingers into fists, then released them. 20our shift. Nothing coffee won’t fix. Something like amusement flickered across his face. “There and gone in an instant.

 You should take better care of yourself,” says the man, bleeding all over my exam table. The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately tensed, but instead of anger, that ghost of a smile returned. He began unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, the other still pressed to his side. When he struggled with the third button, I stepped forward. “Let me.

” His hand caught my wrist, fingers circling it completely, his touch was surprisingly warm, skin smooth, except for calluses I could feel against my pulse point. The contact sent an electric jolt up my arm that had nothing to do with fear. Or at least not entirely. What’s your name? He asked, still holding my wrist. I told you. Emma. Emma Shaw.

 Emma Shaw. He repeated it like he was tasting the syllables. You’re not afraid. It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. I’ve treated gang members, drug dealers, and drunk businessmen who think their money makes them untouchable. You’re just another patient. He released my wrist and leaned back slightly.

 Then treat me, just another patient. I finished unbuttoning his shirt, carefully peeling back the fabric where blood had begun to dry and stick to his skin. The wound was a clean slice about 4 in long running along his ribs. Deep, but not deep enough to need surgery. Next to it was an older injury, a bullet wound, puckered and pink with healing.

 This needs stitches, I said, reaching for the antiseptic and antibiotics. What happened? Does it matter? I soaked a gauze pad in saline. It helps me determine the risk of infection. Knife wounds and broken glass carry different bacteria. Knife, he said after a pause. A very clean knife, I nodded, working methodically to clean the area.

 His torso was lean and muscled, olive skin marked with scars, some surgical, others definitely not. This man was no stranger to violence. “This will sting,” I warned before applying the antiseptic. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. His breathing remained steady, his eyes fixed on my face rather than my hands. I could feel the weight of his gaze as I prepared the local anesthetic.

 I don’t need that,” he said when he saw the syringe. It’s standard procedure for no needles. Something in his tone made me set the syringe aside without argument. I threaded the curved suture needle instead. “Then this will hurt a lot.” A slight lift of his shoulders. Pain and I are old acquaintances. I began the first stitch, expecting him to tense or grab the railings. He did neither.

 His eyes never left my face as I worked, the intensity of his stare making my cheeks warm despite the chill of the room. “Where did you learn to stitch so neatly?” he asked after I’d completed several sutures. “Your technique is precise.” “My grandmother was a seamstress. She taught me to sew before I could write my name.

 I tied off another stitch, though she probably never imagined I’d use those skills like this.” A sound rumbled from his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close. Life rarely follows the paths we imagine for ourselves. For some reason, the observation made my throat tight. 3 years ago, I’d been in my final year of medical school, engaged to a surgical resident, with my whole future planned out.

 Now, I was an ER nurse working double shifts to make rent on a studio apartment, single and struggling to pay down mountain of debt. No, I agreed softly. It doesn’t. We lapsed into silence as I finished the sutures. 17 in total. His skin was hot beneath my gloved fingers. His breathing controlled but occasionally hitching when I hit a particularly sensitive spot.

 As I tied off the final knot, the curtain rustled. One of the suited men slipped inside, bending to whisper in my patients ear. The language wasn’t English, but the urgency was universal. My patients expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he responded with a short clipped phrase. The suited man withdrew immediately. I need to bandage this, I said, reaching for the sterile dressing. Make it quick.

I worked efficiently, taping the edges of the bandage securely to his skin. You need to keep this dry for at least 48 hours. Change the dressing daily. No strenuous activity. No lifting anything heavier than 10 lb. The sutures should come out in 10 days. You should really see a doctor for that, but I’ll send someone for you.

 He began buttoning his shirt. Movements fluid despite his injury. I blinked. What? No, that’s not how this works. You can come back to the hospital or see your primary care physician. He stood and I was suddenly aware of how he towered over me at least 6’3 to my 5’5. The small exam area seemed to shrink further with his presence.

 I don’t have a primary care physician and I don’t come to hospitals. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a money clip that made my eyes widen. He peeled off several hundred bills and held them out to me. I stepped back, shaking my head. I can’t take that. His eyebrow arched. You need it. That’s not I can’t accept cash from patients. It’s unethical. Ethics.

 He said the word like it amused him. He tucked the money into the pocket of my scrubs before I could stop him. Consider it a consultation fee for your discretion. The implication was clear. No records, no questions, no reports to the police about suspicious wounds. I should have protested. Should have reported it immediately.

 Instead, I found myself nodding, the weight of the bills burning against my thigh through the thin fabric. He shrugged into his jacket with careful movements, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at his fresh stitches. 10 days, you said. Yes. And antibiotics. You need a prescription for I have my resources. He reached out suddenly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face.

 The contact was fleeting, but left my skin tingling. You look exhausted, Emma. Go home. Rest. Before I could respond, he was gone. The curtain swishing closed behind him. I stood frozen for several seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

 Only when I moved to clean up the bloody gauze did I realized I’d never asked his name. I finished my shift in a days, the encounter feeling increasingly surreal as the night progressed. By the time I clocked out at 6:00 a.m., I’d almost convinced myself I’d imagined the intensity in those pale eyes, the electricity of his touch. The morning air was cool against my face as I exited through the staff entrance. The sky just beginning to lighten at the edges.

 My apartment was 15 blocks away. Normally, I’d take the bus, but the morning was clear, and the walk would help clear my head. I was two blocks from home when I noticed the black SUV. It crawled along the street parallel to my path. Windows tinted so dark they reflected the rising sunlike mirrors.

 I quickened my pace, adrenaline cutting through my exhaustion. The vehicle accelerated slightly, keeping pace. My apartment building came into view. A shabby five-story walk up that had seen better days decades ago. As I approached the front steps, the SUV finally pulled ahead, stopping at the curb half a block up. No one got out.

 I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking as I unlocked the security door that hadn’t been secure since the ‘9s. Inside, I took the stairs two at a time, not trusting the ancient elevator. My studio was on the fourth floor, and by the time I reached my door, my lungs were burning.

 I locked the door behind me, sliding the chain into place for good measure. Through my single window, I could still see the black SUV parked below. As I watched, a second identical vehicle pulled up behind it. Sleep evaded me despite my exhaustion. I lay on my lumpy futon, staring at the ceiling, replaying the encounter with the mysterious patient.

 The money from my pocket, $2,500 in $100 bills, sat on my rickety coffee table untouched. It was more than enough to cover rent with plenty left over. But something about it felt dangerous, like accepting it would tie me to something I didn’t understand. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of ice blue eyes and hands stained with blood that wasn’t entirely his own.

The pounding on my door jerked me awake. Sunlight streamed through my window. I’d slept through most of the day. The digital clock on my microwave read 4:37 p.m. The pounding came again, more insistent. Miss Shaw, Emma Shaw, a man’s voice deep and unfamiliar. I approached the door cautiously, peering through the peepphole.

 Another suitclad man, different from the ones at the hospital, stood in the hallway, my heart lodged in my throat. Who are you? I called through the door. Mr. Russo sent me. He requires your assistance. Russo. At least I had a name now. I don’t know any Mr. Russo. A pause. You treated him last night. The wound on his side. I pressed my forehead against the door, closing my eyes briefly. Tell Mr.

 Russo to go to the hospital if he’s experiencing complications. He sent a car for you. You’ll be compensated generously for your time. I’m not going anywhere with someone I don’t know to see a man I barely met. Another pause longer this time. I heard the rustle of fabric, then the distinctive sound of a cell phone being dialed.

 The man spoke quietly, his words muffled. A moment later, “Mr. Russo would like to speak with you.” Before I could protest, something was slipped under my door. A phone, sleek, black, expensive. With trembling fingers, I picked it up and held it to my ear. Hello, Emma Shaw. That voice, low, accented, unmistakable.

 I find myself in need of your services again. Mr. Russo, I’m a hospital nurse. I don’t make house calls. Yet, here we are. There was pain in his voice, carefully controlled, but present. The wound has become infected. I require antibiotics and possibly new sutures. Go to the hospital. We both know that’s not an option for me.

 I glanced at the money on my coffee table. Why me? You must know other medical professionals. A pause filled only with the sound of his breathing. I trust your hands, Emma. They’re steady, even when you’re afraid. Something about the way he said it made my skin flush hot, then cold. I could lose my license.

 No one will know and you’ll be helping someone in need. Isn’t that what you swore to do? The oath he referenced was for doctors, not nurses. But I didn’t correct him. Instead, I found myself asking, “How bad is the infection? Bad enough that my men are concerned, which meant very bad if these stoic suits were showing worry.

” I closed my eyes, knowing I was about to make a terrible decision. I need supplies, antibiotics, clean bandages, suture kits, already acquired. The car will take you to and from my residence. You’ll be back home before midnight. And if I refuse, his voice softened, which somehow made it more menacing. Then I’ll be forced to find another solution.

 Perhaps from someone at Mercy General who might recognize me from security footage. Dr. Patel, was it? The threat was clear. If I refused, he’d find someone else. and ensure they faced consequences for helping him. Fine, I heard myself say, “Give me 15 minutes to get ready.” “Fine,” he countered. “My man will wait.” The line went dead.

 I stood frozen for a moment, the phone clutched in my hand, wondering what I’d just agreed to. I threw on clean jeans and a sweater, pulled my tangled blonde hair into a messy bun, and grabbed my medical bag, a habit from my med school days I’d never abandoned. The suit waited patiently in the hallway, not speaking as he escorted me down the stairs and out to yet another black SUV.

 The moment I slid into the back seat, someone placed a blindfold over my eyes. What the hell? I jerked back, hands flying up to rip it away. Strong fingers encircled my wrists. Security protocol, Miss Shaw. Mr. Russo’s residents location is confidential. This wasn’t part of the deal. My voice sounded high and thin to my own ears. It’s non-negotiable.

 The hands released my wrists. Well remove it when we arrive. I sat rigid as the car pulled away from the curb, my mind racing through possible escape scenarios, each more impossible than the last. The vehicle made so many turns I quickly lost all sense of direction.

 We drove for what felt like hours, but was probably only 30 minutes before the smooth asphalt gave way to what felt like a private drive. The car swaying gently as we curved up an incline. When we finally stopped, the engine’s purr faded to silence. The door beside me opened, letting in a rush of cool evening air that smelled of pine and expensive landscaping. “We’ve arrived, Miss Shaw.

” The blindfold was removed, and I blinked against the sudden intrusion of twilight. We were in a circular driveway before a mansion that belonged in the pages of architectural digest. Clean, modernist lines softened by strategic plantings of mature trees, walls of glass reflecting the setting sun, a fountain burbling gently in the center of the drive. It wasn’t gaudy or ostentatious.

 There was too much taste evident in the design for that, but the wealth it represented was staggering. I stepped out on shaky legs, clutching my medical bag like a lifeline. Men in suits patrolled the perimeter of the property, some with visible weapons holstered at their sides. Several nodded respectfully as I was led up the wide stone steps to the front entrance.

 The interior was just as impressive. Soaring ceilings, museum quality art on the walls, furnishings that whispered old money rather than screamed new wealth. I was led through a series of rooms, each more beautiful than the last, to a sweeping staircase that curved up to the second floor. Mr.

 Russo is in the master suite,” my escort informed me, gesturing for me to proceed him up the stairs. The master bedroom was larger than my entire apartment, dominated by an enormous bed with charcoal gray linens. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked what appeared to be a private lake, now silvered by moonlight. A fire crackled in a sleek fireplace along one wall, casting dancing shadows across the polished concrete floors.

And there, propped against a mountain of pillows, was my patient from the night before. He looked markedly worse, skin ashen beneath its olive tone, hair damp with sweat, those ice blue eyes fever bright. A shirtless torso revealed my bandage work from the previous night, now stained with yellowish discharge.

Two men stood at attention near the bed, while a third, older, with silver at his temples, bent over Russo, speaking rapidly in that same foreign language. When they noticed my presence, the older man straightened, giving me an appraising look. You’re the nurse.

 His accent was thicker than Russo’s, his tone skeptical as he took in my disheveled appearance. Before I could answer, Russo spoke. Leave us. His voice was weaker than before, but no less commanding. All of you. The older man frowned. Salvatorei, I don’t think. Out. A single word, brooking no argument. They filed from the room reluctantly, the older man throwing a warning glance my way as he passed.

 The heavy door closed behind them with a soft click that somehow carried the weight of a slammed portal. I approached the bed cautiously, setting my bag on the nightstand. You should be in a hospital. Russo’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. We’ve established that’s not an option. Your wound is severely infected. You might need IV antibiotics, possibly surgical debridement.

 Then it’s fortunate you have experience with both. I stared at him. How do you know about my medical background? He gestured weakly toward a manila folder on the bedside table. Emma Catherine Shaw, 28 years old, former medical student at John’s Hopkins, dropped out in your final year following the death of your fiance. Moved to New York, completed nursing program at Colia, currently paying off $137,000 in student debt. Mother deceased, father unknown.

 Grandmother in assisted living in Baltimore with advancing dementia. You send her $400 every month despite barely making rent. Ice flooded my veins. You investigated me. I investigate everyone who comes into my life, however briefly. I should have been terrified, and part of me was, but anger flared hotter. You had no right. Rights.

 He echoed my word from the previous night. Still with that same hint of amusement despite his obvious pain. Such an interesting concept. I yanked on latex gloves with more force than necessary. “I need to examine the wound,” he gestured permission, watching as I carefully peeled back the soiled bandage. The sight beneath made me inhale sharply.

 The neat sutures I’d placed were now surrounded by angry red flesh. The incision oozing pus and serosanguinous fluid. Heat radiated from the area. “This is bad,” I said, probing gently around the edges. He flinched. the first real reaction to pain I’d seen from him. What happened? Did you get the wound wet? Exert yourself? A slight shrug.

Business required my attention. Business required. I broke off incredulous. You’re running a fever of at least 102. The infection is spreading. Whatever business you attended to nearly killed you. Dying is an occupational hazard in my line of work. He closed his eyes briefly, and I noticed the fine lines of pain etched around his mouth.

 I dug through my bag, pulling out alcohol swabs, sterile gauze, and a suture removal kit. I need to remove these stitches, clean out the infection, and start you on antibiotics immediately. Do you have any allergies to medications? No. Good. This is going to hurt a lot. His eyes opened, fixing on mine with surprising lucidity given his condition.

 You take a certain pleasure in telling me that, don’t you? I didn’t dignify that with a response. instead focusing on gathering supplies from the medical kit his men had apparently procured. It was impressively comprehensive. Hospital-grade antibiotics, suture kits, IV supplies, even a portable heart monitor. Your men are thorough, I commented, preparing a syringe of local anesthetic. They value my life above their own.

 The casual way he said it sent a chill down my spine. I uncapped the syringe. I’m going to numb the area this time. No arguments. He didn’t protest. As I administered the anesthetic around the wound while waiting for it to take effect, I opened an IV kit and searched for a vein in his arm. His skin was hot and dry. Signs of dehydration on top of the infection.

 “When did you last drink water?” I asked, slipping the catheter into a vein on my first try. “This morning.” I hung a bag of saline on a nearby floor lamp, juryrigging it into an IV stand. You’re severely dehydrated. Between that and the infection, you’re headed for septic shock if we don’t get ahead of this. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face. How serious is it? I met his gaze directly.

 Serious enough that if you were anyone else, I’d be calling an ambulance right now. He absorbed this information with a slight nod. Then I’m fortunate to have you here instead. I turned away, busying myself with preparing the antibiotics for the IV. The anesthetic should be working now. I’m going to remove the infected sutures and clean out the wound. Then I’ll start broadspectctrum antibiotics and fluids.

 For the next hour, I worked removing each suture and debriding the infected tissue. Russo remained stoically silent throughout, though beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his jaw clenched with each touch to the tender flesh. “I cleaned the wound thoroughly with antiseptic solution, packed it with antibiotic infused gauze, and dressed it with fresh bandages.

 I’m not going to close it again yet,” I explained as I taped the edges of the dressing. “We need to let it drain and make sure the infection is under control first. I’ll leave the supplies for your men to change the dressing, but I should come back tomorrow to check it. He caught my wrist as I withdrew my hands, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened state. You’ll stay.

 My pulse jumped beneath his fingers. What? No. I have a shift tomorrow night. Call in sick. I can’t just You can and you will. His thumb moved slightly against my skin, tracing the veins at my wrist. I need you here, Emma. The way he said my name, soft, almost intimate, made something flutter in my stomach that had no business being there.

 I pulled my hand free. You need a doctor. A real hospital. What I need is someone I can trust. His gaze held mine, intensity burning through the fever. You’ve seen my home, my security, my weakness. You’re already involved deeper than you know. A chill ran through me at his words. Are you threatening me? I’m stating facts. He shifted slightly, wincing. There’s a guest room prepared for you.

My men will bring anything you require. I wanted to refuse to demand they take me home immediately. But the medical professional in me couldn’t ignore the severity of his condition. He needed monitoring overnight at the very least. And beneath that rational concern lurked something darker, more primitive.

 A fascination with this dangerous man that I couldn’t quite extinguish. One night, I conceded. And I’m checking your vitals every 2 hours. Something that might have been relief flickered across his face. Acceptable. I administered IV antibiotics and a mild sedative, then settled into a chair beside the bed to monitor his response.

 As the medication took effect, his eyelids grew heavy, but he fought against sleep, watching me with that unsettling intensity. “Why did you help me?” he asked, voice thick with approaching unconsciousness. “You could have refused,” called the police. I considered the question seriously. “The hypocratic oath. First, do no harm.” A refusing to help isn’t the same as doing harm. It is to me.

 I adjusted the IV drip. Besides, you didn’t give me much choice. His lips curved slightly. There’s always a choice, Emma Shaw. You’re simply living with the consequences of yours. Before I could respond, his eyes drifted closed, his breathing evening out as the sedative pulled him under. I sat watching the rise and fall of his chest, wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into.

 A soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of the older man who’d been with Russo when I arrived. He glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed, then at me. How is he? His tone was gruff, but couldn’t quite hide his concern. Stable for now. The infection is severe, but the antibiotics should help. He needs rest and constant monitoring.

The man nodded, studying me with narrowed eyes. You’re not what I expected. And what did you expect? Someone harder. Salvator doesn’t usually allow strangers close to him, especially women. He moved further into the room, lowering his voice. Do you know who he is? What he does? I wrapped my arms around myself. I can guess.

 No, he said flatly. You can’t. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking every one of his 60some years. I’ve known Salvator since he was a boy. I watched him build his empire from nothing. I’ve seen him execute men for less than what he’s allowing you. A complete outsider to witness. My mouth went dry.

 Why are you telling me this? He studied me for a long moment. Because you need to understand the waters you’re swimming in, girl. One wrong move and you’ll drown. I didn’t ask to be involved in whatever this is. Yet here you are. He glanced at Russo’s sleeping form. In the heart of the lion’s den. Before I could respond, he turned to leave. At the door, he paused.

 My name is Marco. If you need anything, tell the men outside. They have instructions to accommodate you. His eyes met mine. Grave and assessing. Don’t try to leave on your own. The security system doesn’t distinguish between intruders coming in and those trying to go out. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like a jail cell locking.

 I sank back into the chair, exhaustion washing over me in waves. The enormity of my situation was beginning to sink in. I wasn’t just treating a wounded criminal. I was essentially a prisoner in his home, surrounded by his men, complicit in concealing his injuries from authorities. Every ethical boundary I’d ever been taught to respect had been trampled in the space of 24 hours. And the most terrifying part was how easily I’d allowed it to happen.

 I must have dozed off because I jerked awake sometime later to find Russo watching me, eyes glittering in the dim light. The room was dark except for a single lamp burning low on the nightstand. Outside the windows, the sky was velvet black, stars scattered like diamonds across its expanse.

 You’re supposed to be sleeping, I said, my voice rough with fatigue. So are you, he gestured weakly to the bed. This mattress is large enough for both of us without either knowing the other is there. Heat rushed to my face. I’m fine here. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. You’re a terrible liar, Emma Shaw. I straightened in the chair, checking my watch. It’s time for your next dose of antibiotics anyway.

 As I prepared the medication, I could feel his eyes tracking my every movement. His gaze had a physical weight to it, like a touch against my skin. “You have questions,” he observed. I connected the antibiotic to his IV line. “None that I want answered. Ignorance won’t protect you, neither will knowledge.

” I finished administering the medication and checked his temperature with a digital thermometer. 101.2. Better, but still concerning. He caught my hand as I withdrew. Ask. I stared down at his fingers encircling mine. Strong despite his illness, the nails perfectly manicured. A heavy gold signate ring on his little finger. Dangerous hands. I should pull away. But something held me still.

 Who are you? The question emerged as barely more than a whisper. His thumb traced small circles on my palm, sending unwelcome shivers up my arm. You know who I am. I know your name is Salvatore Russo. I know you’re wealthy. I know you have men who follow your every command. I pulled my hand free. I know you’re dangerous. Yes. No denial. No qualification.

Just simple confirmation of what we both knew. Why me? There must be doctors on your payroll. His eyes never left mine. There are. But they lack your particular qualities, which are integrity, compassion. His gaze drifted over my face. “Beauty,” I flushed, turning away to busy myself with checking his bandage. “Don’t.

 Don’t what? Don’t try to. Whatever this is, I’m your nurse, not your entertainment while you’re bedridden.” A soft chuckle ending in a wse as the movement pulled at his wound. “You’re refreshingly direct, Emma Shaw. Most people are too afraid to speak to me as you do. They probably have better survival instincts than I do.

” This time his laugh was fuller despite the pain it clearly caused him. Perhaps. Or perhaps they simply have more to lose. The words struck a chord. What did I have to lose? A cramped apartment. A job that barely covered my bills.

 A life that had been slowly shrinking since the day James died and took all my carefully laid plans with him. As if reading my thoughts, Russo said softly. Tell me about your fianceé. I stiffened. That’s none of your business. I’ve made it my business. No apology in his tone. James Harrington, 29, fourthyear surgical resident, killed in a convenience store robbery 3 years ago. Wrong place, wrong time. Anger flared hot and sudden.

 Stop it. You were there. Witnessed the whole thing. Tried to save him despite a gunshot wound to your own shoulder. His eyes flicked to my left shoulder where the scar was hidden beneath my sweater. The police never caught the shooter. Tears burned behind my eyes.

 “Why are you doing this?” “Because I want to understand you,” he shifted, pushing himself up straighter against the pillows. “You walked away from everything. Your career, your future, after his death. Why?” Because none of it mattered anymore. The words escaped before I could stop them. Raw and honest in a way I hadn’t allowed myself to be with anyone since the funeral. Because I couldn’t save him.

 Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw his blood on my hands. Russo was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was different, softer, almost gentle. Yet here you are, saving me. Our eyes met in the dim light, and something passed between us, a current of understanding that made my breath catch.

 For one suspended moment, he wasn’t a dangerous criminal, and I wasn’t his reluctant caretaker. We were just two people who recognized something in each other, something broken, something surviving. The moment shattered when a sharp knock came at the door. One of Russo’s men entered without waiting for permission, his expression urgent.

 He crossed to the bed, bending to whisper in Russo’s ear. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the change in Russo’s face, a hardening, a coldness seeping into those pale eyes. He responded in that same foreign language, his tone clipped and precise. The man nodded once and left as abruptly as he’d appeared.

“Problem?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Russo’s gaze returned to me, but the softness was gone, replaced by something calculating. “Nothing that concerns you, but I could see it in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. Whatever news he’d received had disturbed him deeply. “You should rest,” I said.

 Suddenly desperate to escape the intensity of his scrutiny, the antibiotics work better when the body is relaxed, he settled back against the pillows, eyes still fixed on my face. Will you stay? There was something vulnerable in the question that caught me off guard. I nodded before I could overthink it. I’ll be right here. As he drifted back to sleep, I curled up in the oversized chair, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

 Outside the windows, I could see men moving across the grounds, their forms, dark shadows against the moonlit landscape. More than before, many more. Something was happening. Something that had Salvatore Russo calling in reinforcements even as he lay fighting infection in his bed. And somehow I knew with bone deep certainty it had something to do with me.

 I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the disorienting sensation of unfamiliar surroundings. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was. The chair beneath me was leather and butter soft, not the threadbear fabric of my apartment furniture. The ceiling above was coffered with dark wood, not water stained plaster. Then it all came rushing back. Salvator Russo, the infection, the mansion surrounded by armed men.

 I sat up quickly, wincing at the stiffness in my neck. The bed was empty, sheets rumpled, but no sign of my patient. The IV stand remained, the bag nearly empty, but the line had been disconnected. “Mr. Russo,” I called, voice scratchy with sleep. “No answer. I rose, stretching out kinks from my uncomfortable night’s sleep, and moved to the adjoining bathroom. The door was a jar, but the room beyond was empty.

 A palatial marble shrine to luxury with a shower large enough for five people and a soaking tub that looked like it had been carved from a single block of stone. Returning to the bedroom, I noticed a folded piece of paper on the nightstand with my name written on it in a strong slanting hand.

 Emma, business required my attention. Help yourself to anything you need. Marco will see to your comfort. Do not leave the grounds. SR business required his attention. The man was running a fever of 1001 and fighting a serious infection. What kind of business was so urgent it couldn’t wait until he wasn’t at risk of sepsis? I gathered my medical bag, intending to find someone who could tell me where my patient had disappeared to when the bedroom door opened.

 A young woman entered, carrying a tray laden with food. She was perhaps a few years younger than me, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that assessed me quickly. “Good morning, Miss Shaw. I’ve brought you breakfast.” Her English was perfect, but held the same faint accent as Russo’s.

 She set the tray on a small table near the windows. Mr. Russo asked that I provide you with anything you might need. Where is he? I moved toward the table, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. The tray held a carffe of coffee, fresh fruit, pastries, and what appeared to be a frittata, still steaming. Mr. Russo had matters to attend to. He will return this evening. She poured coffee into a delicate china cup. My name is Sophia.

 I am Mr. Russo’s housekeeper. I accepted the cup gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma. He shouldn’t be out of bed. His infection. Mr. Russo does as he pleases. There was something in her tone, not quite disapproval, but close. The doctor is with him. Doctor, what doctor? Sophia’s expression remained neutral. Dr. Vega arrived early this morning to examine Mr. Russo.

 He administered additional antibiotics and cleared him for limited activity. Irritation flared. Why bring me here if he had a doctor on call? I see. Mr. Russo was most insistent that you remain comfortable during his absence. There are clothes in the guest room that should fit you. You’re welcome to use any of the facilities, the pool, the library, the gardens.

 Marco will accompany you if you wish to walk the grounds. In other words, I was free to roam the gilded cage, but not to leave it. When will I be allowed to go home? Sophia’s eyes flickered momentarily. Mr. Russo will discuss that with you upon his return. After she left, I ate mechanically, my mind racing. I needed to call the hospital, let them know I wouldn’t make my shift.

 I patted my pockets, then remembered my phone was still in my apartment. Russo’s men had provided the burner phone yesterday, but I’d left it in the car. Finishing my coffee, I decided to explore. If nothing else, it would give me a better understanding of whose home I was essentially imprisoned in.

 The guest room Sophia had mentioned was across the hall, a space almost as large as the master suite, decorated in soft creams and blues. The closet contained an assortment of women’s clothing in approximately my size, all with designer labels, many still bearing tags. I selected jeans and a simple sweater, then took a long shower in the onsuite bathroom, letting the hot water ease the tension from my muscles. Dressed and feeling marginally more human, I ventured into the hallway.

 The house was eerily quiet, though I occasionally glimpsed staff moving efficiently through distant rooms. I wandered through a series of elegantly appointed spaces, a formal dining room that could seat 20, a library with floor toseeiling bookshelves, a conservatory filled with exotic plants.

 In each room, priceless art adorned the walls. I recognized some of the names, Monae, Picasso, Rothkco, but others were unfamiliar, though clearly valuable. It was like walking through a private museum curated with impeccable taste. I found Marco in what appeared to be a study, seated behind a massive desk, speaking rapidfire Italian into a phone.

 He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable as he ended his call. Miss Shaw, I trust you slept well, as well as one can in a chair. I moved further into the room, taking in the rich leather furnishings and another wall of books. Where is Mr. Russo? Marco’s face gave nothing away. Attending to business.

 What kind of business requires a man with a severe infection to leave his sick bed? The kind that cannot wait. He gestured to a chair opposite the desk. Please sit. I remained standing. I need to call the hospital. Tell them I won’t be in tonight. Already taken care of. Your supervisor believes you have contracted influenza and will be out for at least 3 days.

 The casual way he said it, as if forging a sick call for me was nothing. sent a chill down my spine. You had no right. Mr. Russo thought it prudent to handle the details. Marco leaned back in his chair, studying me. He also arranged for your rent to be paid for the next 6 months.

 And your grandmother’s care facility has received an anonymous donation covering her expenses for the year. I stared at him, speechless for a moment. I didn’t ask for that. Salvator Russo pays his debts. I don’t want his money. A ghost of a smile touched Marco’s lips. Few refused Salvator’s generosity. Fewer still get the opportunity to do so twice. The implication was clear.

 The money wasn’t really payment. It was insurance. A way to keep me quiet, to make me complicit. I changed tactics. How long do you intend to keep me here? That depends on Salvator. Marco’s expression softened slightly. He values your medical expertise and your discretion. I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. We always have choices, Miss Shaw. You could have refused to treat him, called the police.

You didn’t. The echo of Russo’s words from the night before made my skin prickle. So, I’m a prisoner because I helped him. Not a prisoner, a guest. Marco rose from his chair. Would you like to see the grounds? The gardens are quite beautiful, even in autumn. I recognized the deflection, but decided to accept it.

 Perhaps outside, I’d have a better chance of understanding my situation, or finding a way out of it. The estate was even more impressive in daylight. Manicured lawn stretched in all directions, giving way to woodlands at the property’s edge. The lake I’d glimped from Russo’s window was larger than I’d realized, its surface glittering in the morning sun, a boat house nestled on the far shore, and I could see a dock extending into the water.

 But what struck me most was the security. Men patrolled the perimeter in pairs, all wearing earpieces. Cameras were discreetly mounted at strategic points, their lenses swiveing to track movement. The rod iron fence surrounding the property had to be at least 10 ft high with what looked suspiciously like electrified wiring along the top. “How many men does Mr.

 Russo employ?” I asked as Marco led me along a stone path through a formal rose garden. “That changes depending on circumstances.” Marco’s tone was carefully neutral. Currently, there are more than usual. I noticed why. Marco glanced at me, considering there was an incident. A rival organization attempted to breach our security last night.

 My steps faltered here at the house. No, at another location, but Salvatorei takes no chances when it comes to his home or his captives, I thought, but didn’t say. We continued walking, Marco pointing out features of the grounds with the pride of someone who had helped build something remarkable.

 Despite my situation, I found myself admiring the beauty of the place, the thoughtful landscaping, the way the house seemed to rise organically from its surroundings. “How long have you worked for Mr. Russo?” I asked as we paused beside a small Japanese inspired garden complete with a bubbling stream and miniature bridge. “Since he was a boy.” Marco’s expression softened with something like paternal affection.

His father and I were associates. When Antonio was killed, I took Salvator under my protection. Killed. Marco’s face closed again. It was a difficult time. We walked in silence for a while, circling back toward the house. As we approached, I noticed increased activity. More men moving with purpose. Vehicles arriving and departing through the security gate.

What’s happening? I asked. Marco’s expression gave nothing away. Mr. Russo is returning as if on Q. A convoy of black SUVs swept up the drive, coming to a stop before the main entrance. Men spilled out, forming a protective cordon around one vehicle. The rear door opened, and Salvator Russo emerged.

 Even from a distance, I could see he was in pain. His movements were stiff, his normally perfect posture compromised by the need to protect his injured side. But there was nothing diminished about his presence. The men around him moved with the careful difference of satellites orbiting a dangerous star.

 His gaze swept the area, landing on me with palpable intensity. Even across the expansive lawn, I felt the impact of those ice blue eyes like a physical touch. Marco murmured something beside me that I didn’t catch, already moving toward the assembled group. I followed more slowly, my medical training waring with my sense of self-preservation.

 Russo clearly needed to be back in bed, but approaching him in front of his men felt dangerous in ways I couldn’t articulate. By the time I reached the house, Russo had disappeared inside, leaving a wake of tense energy behind him. Marco intercepted me at the door. Mr. Russo will see you in his study in 1 hour.

 Sophia will show you to your room to refresh yourself. I wanted to protest, to insist on examining him immediately, but something in Marco’s expression stopped me. This wasn’t a normal patient nurse dynamic. These weren’t normal circumstances. I needed to tread carefully. Sophia was waiting in the foyer, her expression as unreadable as ever.

 She led me back to the guest room without speaking, closing the door softly behind her as she left. I paced the room, anxiety building with each passing minute. Something had happened, something beyond a rival organization, attempting to breach security. The tension in the house was palpable, like the air before a thunderstorm.

 When Sophia returned to escort me to Russo’s study, I had worked myself into a state of nervous determination. Whatever game was being played, I needed answers. The study was different from Marco’s workspace. Darker, more intimate, with leatherbound books lining the walls and a massive fireplace dominating one end of the room.

 Russo sat behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of ancient wood. His pale eyes tracking my entrance with predatory focus. He looked worse than he had that morning, the fever flush high on his cheekbones, lines of pain bracketing his mouth, but he was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his dark hair combed back from his forehead, his posture betraying none of the discomfort I knew he must be feeling. Emma.

 My name and his accented voice sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I trust Marco showed you the grounds. He did. I moved closer to the desk. Medical assessment automatic. You should be in bed. The infection is being managed. He gestured to a chair across from him. Please sit. I remained standing.

 I’d like to examine your wound. A faint smile touched his lips. so dedicated to your patient. Very well. He began unbuttoning his jacket. I circled the desk, medical bag in hand. He shrugged out of his jacket with careful movements, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. The bandage beneath was pristine. Recently changed.

But when I peeled it back, I could see the wound was still angry and inflamed. The antibiotics are working, but slowly, I said, probing gently at the edges of the incision. You’ve been exerting yourself too much. Unavoidable. I replaced the bandage with a fresh one from my bag. Nothing is unavoidable. You’re risking sepsis.

 Some risks are worth taking. His eyes never left my face as I worked. There have been developments that required my personal attention. I stepped back, returning to the other side of the desk. When can I go home? Russo studied me for a long moment. His expression unreadable. That’s complicated. It’s really not. You have a doctor now. This Dr. Vega.

 You don’t need me anymore. Dr. Vega is useful, but limited in his availability and his discretion. Russo leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly. You, on the other hand, have proven both skilled and discreet. Not by choice. Nevertheless, he steepled his fingers. There’s also the matter of your safety. That pulled me up short. my safety.

 The men who attempted to breach our security last night were looking for something specific. His gaze was steady on mine. Someone specific. A chill ran down my spine. Me? Why would anyone be looking for me? Because you treated me at Mercy General. Because you left with my men. Because certain interested parties have realized you might be valuable.

 The implication hit me like a physical blow. You’re saying I’m in danger because I helped you. I’m saying the circumstances have become more complex than either of us anticipated. Anger flared, hot and sudden. This is insane. I’m a nurse. I treated a patient. That’s all. In your world, perhaps. Russo’s voice remained calm, reasonable. But you’ve stepped into my world now, Emma.

 And in my world, connections to me come with certain complications. So what? I’m supposed to stay here indefinitely? become your personal nurse, your prisoner, my guest.” His correction was soft but firm until the situation is resolved. And when will that be? Soon. He rose from his chair with careful movements, circling the desk to stand before me, even in his weakened state.

His presence was overwhelming, tall, powerful, radiating a controlled danger that made my pulse quicken. I’ve put measures in place. The men looking for you will be dealt with. I took an involuntary step back. Dealt with? You don’t want the details? His eyes held mine, intense and unwavering.

 Know only that I protect what’s mine. I’m not yours. The words came out sharper than I intended. Something flickered in his gaze. Amusement maybe or appreciation. You saved my life, Emma Shaw. In my world that creates a bond, a debt, one I intend to repay by ensuring your safety.

 Before I could respond, a sharp knock came at the door. Marco entered without waiting for permission. His expression grave. They found it, he said in English, presumably for my benefit. The tracking device was in her medical bag. Russo’s face hardened to granite. when it was activated shortly after she arrived yesterday. They’ve been monitoring her movements within the house. My legs suddenly felt weak. Tracking device in my bag.

 Russo moved to me in two quick strides, taking my arms in a gentle but firm grip. Did you speak to anyone unusual at the hospital before treating me? Anyone who might have had access to your belongings? I shook my head, my mind racing. No, I wait. A memory surfaced. There was a new security guard. He asked to check my bag when I arrived for my shift. Said it was a new protocol.

 Russo and Marco exchanged looks laden with meaning. They’ve been watching you since the beginning, Marco said softly. They knew she would lead them to you. Who? I demanded, my voice rising with panic. Who is they? The Costtova family? Russo replied, his accent thickening with what I now recognized as suppressed rage. a rival organization that has been attempting to encroach on my territory for the past year.

 But why me? Why would they care about a nurse? Because Salvator never brings women to his home,” Marco said, his tone matter of fact. “Never allows outsiders this close.” “You represented an unprecedented opportunity to locate him when he was vulnerable.” The implications crashed over me in a sickening wave.

 I wasn’t just in danger because I’d treated Russo. I was being used as bait, a tool to get to him when he was injured and weakened. Oh my god. I sank into the chair behind me, my legs no longer able to support my weight. This is a nightmare. It’s business. Russo corrected, his voice cold. Brutal, but predictable. He turned to Marco.

Double the perimeter security. Move forward the timetable on Costa tonight. Marco nodded once and left the room without another word. Russo knelt before me, ignoring what must have been significant pain from his wound. His hands closed over mine where they twisted in my lap. Listen to me, Emma. You are safe here.

 No one will harm you while you’re under my protection. Your protection? I gave a slightly hysterical laugh. I wouldn’t need protection if I’d never met you. Perhaps. His thumbs traced small circles on my wrists, the touch oddly calming despite everything. But we cannot change the past. We can only move forward.

 I looked into his eyes, searching for something. Deceit, manipulation, the cold calculation that should be there. Instead, I found something that looked disturbingly like genuine concern. What happens now? I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. Now you stay here where I can ensure your safety. My men will deal with the cost of a threat.

Once that’s resolved, you’ll be free to return to your life. Just like that. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. More or less. And if I don’t want to stay, his expression sobered. Then you place yourself in danger. And he added, his voice dropping slightly. You leave me without my very capable nurse while I’m still fighting an infection.

 The naked manipulation in the statement was so blatant, it was almost charming. Almost. You’re impossible, I muttered. So, I’ve been told, he rose with a barely concealed wse. Now, if you’re done questioning my decisions, I believe it’s time for another dose of antibiotics. For the rest of the day, I fell into an uneasy routine.

 Checking Russo’s wound, administering medication, monitoring his temperature. He worked from his bedroom, receiving a stream of visitors who spoke to him in rapid Italian, their conversation ceasing the moment I entered the room. The sun had set when Marco appeared at the bedroom door, his expression grim. It’s time.

 Russo nodded, setting aside the laptop he’d been working on. Stay with Emma. Make sure she remains in the house. Of course. Marco’s eyes flicked to me where I stood by the window, pretending not to listen. Be careful, Salvator. You’re not at full strength. I don’t need to be. Russo’s voice held a deadly calm that sent chills down my spine.

 I just need to be present. After he left, I turned to Marco. What’s happening? Nothing that concerns you, but his gaze kept straying to the window. Out toward the darkness beyond the property. It concerns me if it involves people who are apparently using me to get to Mr. Russo. Marco was silent for a long moment. Salvator is meeting with Victor Costa, offering terms.

 Terms, a ceasefire, territory agreements, compensation for past disputes. The clinical phrasing didn’t fool me. You mean he’s threatening them? Marco’s lips curved in a humorless smile. In our world, negotiations and threats are often the same thing. I moved to the window, peering out into the darkness. Flood lights illuminated the grounds, revealing more men than I’d seen earlier, all armed, all stationed with tactical precision around the property. “How many men does Mr.

 Russo have?” I asked quietly. “Here tonight,” Marco came to stand beside me. “Over 200.” The number staggered me. 200 armed men all answering to Salvator Russo. All prepared to protect him and by extension me and the cost of Victor will come with a similar show of force. It’s expected, a sign of respect.

 I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. What happens if the negotiations fail? Marco’s gaze was steady on mine. Pray that they don’t. Hours passed in tense silence. Marco received periodic updates via his phone, but shared nothing with me.

 I paced the bedroom, anxiety building with each passing minute. The scene outside remained unchanged, armed men patrolling, flood lights sweeping the grounds, the distant gleam of the lake reflecting the moon. It was nearly midnight when the door opened and Russo entered. He looked exhausted, the lines around his mouth deeper than before, but there was a satisfied gleam in his pale eyes.

 It’s done, he said to Marco, loosening his tie with one hand. Costa accepted our terms. Relief washed over Marco’s features. All of them. All of them. Russo’s gaze found mine, including the provision regarding Miss Shaw. My heart skipped a beat. What provision? Your safety. Your return to your normal life. Your continued anonymity.

 There was something he wasn’t saying, something in the careful way he chose his words. And in return, a slight smile curved his lips. You concern yourself with matters that don’t require your attention. If it involves me, it absolutely requires my attention. Marco made a sound that might have been a hastily suppressed laugh.

 Russo shot him a look, then turned back to me. Victor Costa has agreed to withdraw his interest in you. In return, I’ve granted certain concessions regarding shipping routes that were under dispute. The clinical phrasing couldn’t disguise what he was really saying. He’d sacrificed business interests to ensure my safety. The knowledge should have been reassuring.

Instead, it left me with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. So, I can go home. Russo’s expression grew guarded. Soon after we ensure Costa honors his part of the agreement. How long is soon? a day, perhaps two. He moved to the bed, lowering himself onto it with careful movements that betrayed his exhaustion and pain. Your wound needs checking.

 The abrupt change of subject wasn’t lost on me. But I let it slide, my medical training taking over as I approached him. Marco slipped from the room, leaving us alone. I helped Russo remove his jacket and shirt, noting the fresh beads of sweat on his brow. Whether from pain or the exertion of the night’s activities, I couldn’t tell.

 The bandage beneath was still clean, which was a good sign. But when I removed it, I could see the wound was still angry and inflamed. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” I said, cleaning the area with antiseptic. “The infection isn’t responding to the antibiotics as quickly as it should.” “I’ve had worse.

” I glanced up at his face, finding his eyes fixed on mine with that now familiar intensity. That doesn’t make it any less serious. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch lingering longer than necessary. Your concern is touching. I pulled back, applying a fresh bandage with perhaps more force than needed. It’s professional, not personal.

 Are you certain about that? The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn’t ready to examine. I busied myself with packing away my supplies, avoiding his gaze. “You should rest,” I said finally. “Your body needs time to heal.

 Will you stay?” The question echoed the one from the night before, but this time it carried a different weight. I looked up, finding his expression more open, more vulnerable than I’d seen it yet. “I’ll check on you through the night,” I hedged. “That’s not what I asked.” His voice was soft, but insistent. Will you stay, Emma? Here with me. The words sent a shiver down my spine. Not of fear, but of something far more dangerous. Something I wasn’t ready to name.

 I don’t know what you’re asking me. I think you do. His gaze held mine, unflinching. From the moment you pulled back that curtain in the ER, something changed. You felt it, too. I shook my head, taking another step back. You’re delirious. The fever. I’ve never been more clear-headed. He rose from the bed, moving toward me with the fluid grace of a predator, despite his injury.

You see me, Emma. Not the power, not the money, not the danger. You see me. He was too close now. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Smell the expensive cologne that clung to his skin beneath the antiseptic. “I don’t know you,” I whispered. “You know enough.” His hand came up to cut my cheek. Gentle despite the strength I knew it possessed. Enough to be afraid. Yet here you stand.

 Enough to understand what I am. Yet you still treat me with compassion. I should pull away. Should put distance between us. Instead I found myself leaning into his touch. My body betraying what my mind still fought against. This is insane. I breathed. Stockholm syndrome at its finest. A smile touched his lips.

 Is that your diagnosis, Nurse Shaw? It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Or perhaps it’s simpler than that. His thumb traced the outline of my lower lip. Perhaps it’s chemistry, fate, the recognition of something in another that resonates with something in yourself. Poetic for a man who commands an army of killers. His smile widened. We contain multitudes, you and I.

Before I could respond, he closed the distance between us, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was surprisingly gentle for all the power it contained. I should have pushed him away, should have slapped him, should have run. Instead, my hands came up to grip the front of his undershirt, pulling him closer as something inside me surrendered to the inevitable. The kiss deepened, his arms encircling me, drawing me against the hard plains of his body.

 I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric separating us. The steady beat of his heart against my palm. In that moment, he wasn’t Salvator Russo. Feared mafia boss with an army at his command. He was simply a man, wounded and healing, holding me like I was something precious.

 When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t expected. vulnerability laid bare for me to see. It transformed his face, softening the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the power. Stay, he whispered against my lips. Stay with me tonight and God help me. I did.

 Dawn broke in strips of amber and rose through the floor to ceiling windows, painting patterns across the rumpled sheets. I lay awake, watching the play of light across Salvator’s sleeping form, the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, the curve of his shoulder where it disappeared beneath the charcoal silk. He looked younger in sleep, the lines of tension and authority smoothed away, more like the man he might have been in another life, one without blood and power and enemies waiting in the shadows. My fingers hovered above his skin, not

quite touching. What had I done? In the harsh light of morning, the events of the night before seemed like a fever dream, his lips on mine, his hands learning the geography of my body. My own surprising hunger for a man I should by all rights fear. I slipped from the bed carefully, gathering my scattered clothing, and retreated to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

Flushed cheeks, lips slightly swollen, a small mark blooming at the juncture of neck and shoulder where his mouth had been. I pressed my fingers to it, the slight ache, a confirmation that last night had been real. When I emerged, dressed and with my hair tamed into some semblance of order.

 Salvator was awake, propped against the pillows, watching me with those ice blue eyes that seem to see too much. You’re thinking too loudly, he said, voice rough with sleep. “Someone should be.” I moved to the window, putting distance between us. “Last night was a mistake, was it?” He shifted, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his wound. It didn’t feel like a mistake. I turned to face him.

 I’m your nurse. You’re my patient. Beyond that, you’re I gestured vaguely, encompassing the mansion, the armed men, the world he commanded. I’m what? A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. A criminal? A monster? Is that what you’re trying to say? Aren’t you? The smile faded. I am many things, Emma.

 Some of them would indeed frighten you. But last night, I was just a man, and you were just a woman. It’s not that simple. It could be. He sat up fully, the sheet pooling around his waist. For us, the conviction in his voice sent a shiver down my spine, not of fear, but of something more dangerous. Hope, possibility. I crushed it ruthlessly.

 There is no us, Salvator. There’s a nurse who treated a patient. A woman who was brought to a house against her will. A night that shouldn’t have happened. His expression hardened almost imperceptibly. Is that what you believe? That you had no choice, didn’t I? You sent armed men to my apartment.

 You threatened my job, my life? I protected you? The words were soft, but carried the weight of absolute conviction. From the moment you treated me at that hospital, you were in danger. Not from me. From those who would use you to get to me. A danger I wouldn’t have been in if I’d never met you. I wrapped my arms around myself. Last night doesn’t change that.

 Salvator was silent for a long moment, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Finally, he threw back the covers and rose from the bed, unself-conscious in his nakedness. I averted my eyes as he pulled on a pair of pants, though the memory of his body against mine the night before made the gesture almost laughable.

 “Come with me,” he said, shrugging into a robe. “There’s something you need to see.” Curiosity wared with caution. “What answers?” He extended his hand to me to questions you haven’t even thought to ask yet. Against my better judgment, I placed my hand in his, his fingers closed around mine, warm and strong.

 As he led me from the bedroom, we moved through the quiet house, dawn light filtering through windows, casting long shadows across marble floors. The few staff members we encountered averted their eyes, melting away like ghosts. I wondered what they thought, seeing their employer leading a rumpled woman through the halls in the early morning light. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t an uncommon sight.

The thought stung more than it should have. Salvatorei led me to a part of the house I hadn’t seen before. A wing that seemed older than the rest with darker woods and more traditional furnishings. He stopped before a heavy wooden door ornately carved with what looked like a family crest.

 “My father’s study,” he said, producing a key from his robe pocket. “I’ve kept it exactly as it was the day he died.” The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a room that felt like stepping back in time. Heavy velvet drapes framed windows overlooking the lake. Leatherbound books lined the walls.

 A massive desk dominated the center of the room. Its surface bare except for a single framed photograph and an antique letter opener shaped like a dagger. Salvatorei moved to the desk, picking up the photograph and studying it for a moment before handing it to me. It showed a younger version of himself.

 perhaps 16 or 17, standing beside an older man with the same striking blue eyes. Between them stood a woman, beautiful in a fragile way, her hand resting on young Salvatore’s shoulder. My parents, he said simply, 3 months before they were killed, I looked up sharply. Both of them? He nodded, moving to the window, his back to me. My father was Antonio Russo.

 He built our family’s business from nothing. made powerful friends, more powerful enemies. His voice took on a distant quality, as if reciting facts about strangers. When I was 17, those enemies decided he had become too influential. They waited until we were all at home. My mother, my father, me.

 Something in his tone made my blood run cold. What happened? He turned to face me, his eyes like chips of ice. They came at night. Professional killers. They shot my father first in the study downstairs where he was working late. My mother heard the shots, tried to reach him. They killed her on the staircase. I clutched the photograph tighter, looking down at the smiling woman who had no idea her life would end so violently.

And you? I was in my room, heard the shots, had enough time to take my father’s gun from his bedside drawer. When they came for me, I was waiting. A smile touched his lips, devoid of any warmth. I killed three of them before they subdued me. My god. I set the photograph down carefully.

 How did you survive, Marco? He arrived with our men just as they were dragging me from the house. Salvator moved to a cabinet, withdrawing a crystal decanter and two glasses. They intended to make an example of me. A message to anyone who might consider taking my father’s place. He poured amber liquid into both glasses, offering one to me.

 I took it automatically, though it was barely past dawn. After that night, I made a choice. He raised his glass in a mock toast. I would become not just my father’s son, but his revenge. I would build an empire so powerful, so untouchable that no one would ever dare come for me or mine again. I took a small sip, the whiskey burning a path down my throat.

 And did you get revenge eventually? It took three years to track down everyone responsible. The men who ordered it, the men who planned it, the men who survived that night. His expression was matter of fact, but I could see the shadow of the 17-year-old boy in his eyes. I made sure they suffered before they died.

 I should have been horrified, should have been repulsed by the casual way he spoke of torture and murder. Instead, I found myself asking, “Did it help the revenge?” Something flickered in his gaze, surprised perhaps at the question. No, it didn’t bring them back. But it established a truth that has protected me ever since. No one touches what belongs to Salvator Russo without paying a price too high to contemplate.

 The implication hung in the air between us. No one touches what belongs to Salvator Russo, including me. Why are you telling me this? I set the glass down, suddenly needing clear hands, a clear head. He moved closer, stopping just within arms reach. Because I want you to understand what I am, why I am, the world I inhabit. So I’ll what? Accept it. Embrace it.

 I gestured around the room. the violence, the criminal empire, the men with guns patrolling your property. So you’ll see me.” His voice dropped, intensifying. All of me. Not just the parts that frightened you in the hospital. Not just the parts that seduced you last night. The whole truth.

 And if I can’t accept that truth, his expression softened, a vulnerability I hadn’t expected, bleeding through the hardened exterior, then you walk away today. Return to your life as if none of this happened. I stared at him, searching for the trap, the manipulation. Just like that. Just like that. He set his own glass down, closing the distance between us. His hands came up to frame my face.

 Gentle despite the strength I knew they possessed. But before you decide, know this. Last night wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t Stockholm syndrome. It wasn’t manipulation or coercion. It was real. Perhaps the most real thing I’ve experienced since the night my parents died. His words struck something deep inside me. A chord of recognition I couldn’t deny. I had felt it, too.

 The connection between us that defied logic or reason. The sense that in his arms I had found something I’d been searching for since James died. Not a replacement, but a resonance. A recognition of shared wounds. I need time. I whispered to think, he nodded, his thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones. Time you shall have.

 He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering for a moment before releasing me. Marco will take you home whenever you’re ready. I left him standing in his father’s study, surrounded by ghosts of a past that had forged him into the man he had become. As I walked back through the house, I felt the weight of a decision I never could have imagined making just days ago. Stay or go. Accept or reject.

 Embrace the danger or return to the safety of my small shrinking life. Back in the guest room, I gathered my few belongings, moving mechanically as my mind raced. Sophia appeared with breakfast, her expression giving nothing away about what she might know or suspect about my night with her employer. Mr.

 Russo asked me to inform you that a car will be ready whenever you wish to depart, she said, setting the tray on a small table by the window. Thank you. I sat at the table, though I had no appetite. Sophia, how long have you worked for Mr. Russo? She paused at the door. Since I was 16. He found me in a difficult situation. Gave me a job, safety, education.

 Do you? Are you afraid of him? Something like surprise flickered across her usually composed features. Afraid? No. Respectful? Yes. Loyal? Absolutely. She hesitated, then added. Mr. Russo protects what’s his, not just through fear. It’s rare in our genuine care. She left before I could ask more questions. The door closing softly behind her.

 I ate mechanically, watching the morning light strengthen across the manicured grounds. Men still patrolled the perimeter, but there seemed to be fewer than the day before. The crisis, whatever it had been, appeared to have passed. By midm morning, I had made my decision. I found Marco in the main foyer speaking quietly with several suited men who dispersed at my approach.

I’m ready to go home, I said, clutching my medical bag like a lifeline. Marco studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Of course, the car is waiting. He hesitated, then added. Salvatore asked that I give you this to open when you’re alone. He handed me a heavy cream envelope sealed with wax pressed with what I recognized as the same crest from the study door. I slipped it into my bag without comment.

The return journey was surreal in its normality. No blindfold this time, just a silent drive-through countryside I hadn’t seen on my arrival, eventually giving way to the familiar urban landscape of the city. When we pulled up before my shabby apartment building, it felt like years rather than days had passed since I’d last seen it.

Your apartment has been secured, Marco said as the driver opened my door. New locks, better security system. Ms. Shaw. He hesitated, then continued in a softer tone. He doesn’t extend himself this way often. Almost never. In fact, I met his gaze, understanding the message beneath the words.

 Thank you, Marco, for everything. My apartment looked the same yet different. everything in its place, but with an underlying sense that someone had been there in my absence. The new locks were obvious, as was the discrete security panel beside the door that hadn’t been there before.

 I set my bag on the coffee table, suddenly exhausted despite the early hour. The envelope Marco had given me seemed to burn a hole in my consciousness. With trembling fingers, I broke the wax seal and withdrew a single sheet of heavy paper covered in a strong, slanting hand. Emma By now, you’re home, likely questioning everything that has transpired between us. I won’t insult your intelligence by claiming it was all a dream or a momentary madness.

 What happened was real. What I feel for you is real. I am not a good man by society’s standards. I have blood on my hands that will never wash clean. I command men who would kill or die at my word. I operate in a world of shadows and violence that few ever glimpse, let alone understand.

 But with you, I found something I thought lost forever. The capacity to feel something beyond power, beyond vengeance, beyond the cold calculation that has defined my existence since I was 17 years old. You asked for time, and I will give it to you. A day, a week, a month, however long you need to decide if what we found in each other is worth exploring despite the complications.

In the meantime, know this. You are under my protection whether you choose me or not. The men watching your apartment are there for your safety, not to monitor your movements. You are free to live your life exactly as you did before we met. With one difference, you now have a choice that few are ever offered.

 to step fully into my world, eyes open, knowing exactly what it entails, or to walk away, returning to the life you knew with the memory of what might have been. Whatever you decide, know that you have awakened something in me that I thought died with my parents all those years ago. For that alone, I will always be in your debt until we meet again, Salvator.

 I read the letter twice, then set it aside, moving to the window. On the street below, a black SUV was parked half a block down. Another was visible at the corner, watching, protecting. 3 days ago, the site would have terrified me. Now, it brought a complex mixture of emotions I couldn’t fully untangle. Security, yes, but also a strange sense of belonging, of being valued enough to warrant such measures.

 My phone retrieved from my bedside table where I’d left it days ago, buzzed with messages. The hospital checking on my illness. Friends wondering why I’d gone silent. The normal everyday concerns of a life that suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else. I should call them back.

 Should fall back into the comfortable routine of work and home and the quiet grief that had been my companion since James died. The safe choice, the sane choice. Instead, I found myself reaching for the burner phone Salvatore’s men had given me, still in my medical bag, where I’d tucked it before leaving the mansion. It had only one number programmed into it. My finger hovered over the call button as I weighed two futures, one safe, but small, one dangerous, but vibrant with possibility.

 In the end, it wasn’t really a choice at all. The phone rang only once before he answered, his voice, a low rumble that sent a shiver of recognition down my spine. Emma. My name in his mouth sounded like a prayer and a possession all at once. You’ve made your decision quickly.

 I looked out at the men guarding my street, at the letter on my coffee table, at the medical bag that had led me into his world. At the life I’d been sleepwalking through since James died. I have questions, I said, my voice steadier than I felt. Conditions. A soft chuckle. I would expect nothing less. I won’t give up nursing. My career, my independence.

 I would never ask that of you. I need to know everything. No secrets, no protected ignorance. A pause longer this time. That knowledge comes with responsibility, with danger. I know. And you’re prepared for that. I thought of the 17-year-old boy who had faced killers in his childhood home. of the man who had built an empire from the ashes of his family, of the patient who had looked at me with ice blue eyes and seen something no one else had since James died. “Yes,” I said simply. “I am.

” The silence stretched between us, laden with meaning. When he finally spoke, his voice held a warmth I had glimpsed only in our most intimate moments. “Then come home, Emma. Come home to me.” Outside, one of the SUVs pulled away from the curb, circling around to stop directly in front of my building. The front door buzzed, his men coming to escort me back to the mansion.

Back to him. It should have felt like surrendering, like capitulating to a force too powerful to resist. Instead, it felt like waking up, like stepping out of the gray half-life I’d been living and into something vivid and dangerous and real. “I’m on my way,” I said. and ended the call. As I gathered the few things I would need, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like hope. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

3 days ago, I had bandaged the wounds of a stranger who commanded an army of killers. Today, I was choosing to become part of his world, his life, his protection, his. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like coming home after a very long journey. I took one last look around the apartment that had been my refuge and my prison since James died.

 Then I walked out the door without looking back, toward the men waiting to take me to Salvator, toward a future I could never have imagined, but now couldn’t imagine living without. The door closed behind me with a soft click, like the ending of one chapter and the beginning of another. As I descended the stairs toward the waiting car, I felt lighter than I had in years.

 She bandaged the mafia boss’s wounds, and in doing so, perhaps began to heal her own.