The Paralyzed Mafia Boss Spent His Birthday Alone—Until a Single Mom Walked Through the Door

Neta stood in the doorway, clutching Laith against her body so tightly the child could barely breathe. She was pale as a sheet, her eyes wide with terror as she looked past Thomas at the smoke-filled hallway beyond.

"Is it... is it over?" she whispered.

Gideon wheeled himself forward out of the shadows, resting the SIG Sauer on his lap. "It's over for tonight, Miss Campbell."

Neta stepped into the kitchen, her boots crunching on shattered glass. She looked at Gideon, then at the blood pooling near the dining room doorway, and a sudden, violent shiver ran through her frame.

"You... you shot them," she breathed.

"They came here to murder me," Gideon said, his tone devoid of apology. "I did what was necessary to survive. And to keep you and your son alive."

Neta swallowed hard, her mind spinning. She was just a baker. She made birthday cakes, paid rent, and worried about her car's tire tread. She had stepped out of her quiet, stressful little life and directly into a war zone.

"We need to call the police," Neta said, her voice shaking as she reached for her phone.

"No police," Thomas said firmly, stepping between her and the exit. "The police in this district are on Declan Walsh’s payroll. If you call them, they won't file a report. They will deliver you directly to Declan to eliminate witnesses."

Neta stopped, her phone hovering in mid-air. The reality of her situation hit her like a bucket of ice water. She had seen Declan Walsh’s face. She had heard his voice. In the eyes of the Chicago underworld, she was no longer an innocent bystander—she was a witness.

"Oh god," Neta gasped, sinking into a kitchen chair, her strength giving out. She buried her face in her hands. "Oh god, what am I going to do? Laith... my baby..."

Laith, seeing his mother cry, began to weep softly, wrapping his small arms around her neck. "Mommy, I wanna go home."

Gideon watched them. A strange, unfamiliar sensation tugged at his chest—a heavy, suffocating weight that had nothing to do with his paralyzed legs.

These people were in danger because of him. Because Arthur had ordered a cake. Because Gideon had let them inside his gate instead of turning them away in the rain.

"Thomas," Gideon said, his voice hard as iron. "Call Dr. Vance. Have him bring the medical transport van to the rear estate entrance."

"Sir?" Thomas looked surprised.

"We're leaving," Gideon said. "Declan knows I'm alive, but he doesn't know where I'm going. The safehouse in Evanston is ready."

He turned his wheelchair toward Neta.

"Miss Campbell," Gideon said, his voice softening just a fraction. "You cannot go back to your apartment tonight. Declan's men will already be searching your delivery records. If you go home, they will be waiting for you."

Neta looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with helpless fury. "I have a life! I have a bakery! I have orders for Saturday!"

"And if you go back there, your son will be an orphan by morning," Gideon said flatly, stating the brutal truth without sugarcoating it. "I am responsible for bringing this violence into your night. Therefore, I am responsible for your safety."

He extended his broad, calloused hand toward her.

"Come with me. I have resources. I have secure properties. I will protect you and your son until I finish Declan Walsh once and for all."

Neta stared at his large, steady hand. This man was a monster to some, a crime boss, a killer who had just executed three men in his dining room without blinking. But looking at his dark eyes, she saw an absolute, unwavering vow.

She looked at Laith, who was shivering in her arms.

Slowly, reluctantly, Neta reached out and placed her small, flour-dusted hand into Gideon’s grip.

"If anything happens to my son," Neta whispered, her eyes flashing with a mother's dangerous fire, "I don't care if you're in a wheelchair, Mr. Croft. I will kill you myself."