Six nurses had quit in five days before I walked into Dominic Rossi’s bedroom and found blood soaking through Egyptian cotton sheets. Everyone warned me the wounded mafia boss was determined to bleed himself to death, but with rent due Monday and almost nothing left in my bank account, fear had become a luxury I could no longer afford.

I spent the morning changing Dominic’s dressings. To my surprise, he didn't fight me this time. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders tense as I worked with sterile gauze and antibiotic ointment. The angry red inflammation around the wound had begun to recede, and his fever had finally broken completely.

“You’re quiet today,” Dominic noted, watching my hands move with clinical precision.

“I’m thinking about Monday,” I said honestly, snipping a piece of medical tape with my shears.

“Your rent?”

“My rent, my utilities, and the fact that my car is currently dying in your driveway.”

Dominic leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his good arm. “Leo told me your car wouldn't start when you arrived. I had one of the mechanics swap the alternator and replace the battery last night. It’s sitting outside the gates, fully gassed up and ready to go.”

I stopped moving, looking up at him in surprise. “You had my rusted sedan fixed?”

“I don't like owing people favors,” Dominic said smoothly, though I caught a flicker of something unreadable in his gray eyes. “You saved my life this weekend. Fixing a broken-down car is just basic accounting.”

“Right. Basic mafia accounting.”

A knock at the door interrupted us. Leo pushed it open, holding a secure laptop and a heavy leather folder. His face was paler than usual, and the tension in his posture told me everything I needed to know before he even spoke.

“Boss,” Leo said, his voice tight. “We’ve got a problem. Marcus’s men found our supply route in town. They intercepted the courier we sent for fresh surgical supplies.”

Dominic’s entire demeanor shifted in a fraction of a second. The calm, brooding patient vanished, replaced instantly by the ruthless syndicate boss who ruled the eastern seaboard with an iron fist.

“Did the courier talk?” Dominic asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, glacial register.

“No. He swallowed the tracking chip before they grabbed him,” Leo said. “But they know the supplies were headed up this mountain. They’re combing the lower access roads right now. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

The room went dead silent.

My heart hammered against my ribs. By nightfall. That meant we had hours—maybe less—before an armed militia led by a traitorous caporegime breached the estate.

“How many men does Marcus have?” Dominic demanded, standing up completely, ignoring the sharp pull of his injured shoulder.

“At least fifteen. Heavily armed,” Leo replied. “We only have four guards on rotation inside the perimeter. We’re outmatched if they breach the main gates.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He reached for a heavy leather holster resting on the bedside table, unbuckling a 9mm Beretta with his left hand.

“Mr. Rossi, you can’t fight a shootout with a fresh gunshot wound,” I stepped forward, blocking his path to the door. “If you tear those stitches open, you’ll bleed out in five minutes. You’re in no condition to hold a weapon, let alone lead a defense.”

Dominic looked down at me, towering over me by nearly a foot, his eyes burning with absolute, uncompromising resolve.

“If I don't stop Marcus here, Nora, he won't just kill me—he’ll execute everyone in this house to ensure no witnesses remain,” Dominic said, his voice surprisingly gentle for a man holding a loaded gun. “That includes you.”

I stared at him, realizing the stark reality of my situation. I had come here for a paycheck, but I had accidentally walked into a slaughterhouse.

“Then we don't fight them at the gates,” I said, a sudden, desperate idea flashing through my mind.