The Chicago Crime Boss’s Son Made Every Maid Leave in Tears Until the Housekeeper He Injured Became the Only Person Who Could Save Him From Himself

A black sedan idling near warehouse bay twelve killed its headlights.

Lucas Mercer sat in the passenger seat, his hands trembling as he clutched a thumb drive containing his father's master security override codes.

"Come on, man, plug it into the terminal terminal server inside," Darren urged from the driver's seat, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. "Just upload the manifest batch, and we’re done. You get your five grand, I get my clearance, and we go back to the party."

Lucas stared at the thumb drive. A sick, hollow feeling churned in his stomach. For three weeks, living in that cramped townhouse, eating cheap food, and doing his own laundry for the first time in his life, he had spent hours thinking about what Nia said before he left the mansion.

“You want to live like a parasite? Fine. You will live on what you earn, or you will starve.”

He hadn't starved. But he had started to see the people he called friends for what they really were—parasites feeding off his last name.

"No," Lucas said quietly.

Darren stopped tapping. He turned his head, staring at Lucas with a dangerous edge in his eyes. "What did you say?"

"I said no, Darren," Lucas said louder, sliding the thumb drive into his pocket. "I'm not doing this. My dad is going to find out, and I'm done playing your game."

Darren’s smooth facade cracked instantly, revealing the cold, predatory thug underneath. He reached across the console, grabbing the collar of Lucas’s hoodie and slamming him against the passenger window.

"You don't get to walk away, rich boy," Darren hissed, pulling a small silver-plated pistol from his jacket pocket and pressing it against Lucas's ribs. "You took those files from your old man's safe. That makes you an accomplice whether you upload them or not. Now plug the drive in, or I leave you bleeding in the mud."

Lucas stared down at the barrel of the gun, the cold terror freezing his lungs. He had spent his whole life believing his last name made him invincible. Now, in the dark rain of the docks, he realized how utterly fragile he really was.

Before Darren could pull the trigger, the passenger door was yanked violently open.

A heavy hand gripped Darren by the back of his cashmere jacket, hauled him bodily out of the sedan, and slammed him hood-first onto the wet metal roof with a bone-rattling crash.

Darren screamed as his arm was twisted behind his back with merciless efficiency.

Stepping out of the driving rain was Adrian Mercer.

He didn't wear a raincoat. His dark suit was soaked through, clinging to his broad shoulders, and his face was carved out of cold, merciless stone. Behind him, four armed security specialists fanned out, securing the perimeter in absolute silence.

Adrian looked over the roof of the car at his son.

Lucas sat frozen in the passenger seat, gasping for breath, staring at his father with wide, horrified eyes.

"Dad..." Lucas choked out.

Adrian didn't yell. He didn't curse. He reached into Lucas's pocket, pulled out the thumb drive, and dropped it into his own coat pocket.

Then he looked down at Darren, who was thrashing helplessly beneath the grip of one of Adrian’s enforcers.

"Tell your bosses on the West Side," Adrian whispered, his voice dangerously soft, "that if they ever send a rat to nibble on my family again, I won't just shut down their docks. I'll erase them from the map."

Adrian gestured to his men. "Take him away. Dump him outside the precinct."

As Darren was dragged screaming into the shadows, Adrian turned back to the car. He opened the passenger door, unclipped his son's seatbelt, and pulled Lucas out into the rain.

Lucas braced himself for the blow, squeezing his eyes shut.

Instead, two strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a fierce, suffocating embrace against his father's chest.

Lucas froze. He hadn't been hugged like this since he was twelve years old—since the day his mother died and his father retreated behind a wall of work.