Twelve Doctors Said the Mafia Boss Would Die Before Sunrise Until the Maid Recognized the Pink Ring in His Glass

The mechanical ventilator had been removed. Most of the heavy diagnostic equipment had been rolled out into the hallway, leaving only a single heart monitor humming quietly beside the bed.

Gideon Wolf sat propped up against a mountain of plush white pillows.

His skin was no longer yellow-gray; a faint, healthy color had returned to his sharp cheekbones. His dark hair was brushed back, revealing deep-set, piercing amber eyes that seemed to absorb every detail of the room. Though he was still physically weak from the massive ordeal his body had endured, the sheer, terrifying authority that made men tremble across the city was fully intact.

Arthur Finch stood beside the bed, presenting a thick black leather folder.

Standing near the foot of the bed was Norah. She had been given a clean, tailored dark blue wool dress to replace her oversized maid's uniform, her brown hair neatly pinned back. She felt out of place, uncomfortable under the intense, unblinking gaze of the man in the bed.

Gideon closed the folder and set it on his lap. He reached for a glass of pure, filtered water resting on his nightstand, taking a slow sip.

"Victor Vane," Gideon said, his voice raspy and deep, like grinding stones, yet carrying an icy precision. "He thought he could use my own health against me."

"Vane has already positioned forty of his men around Pier 19," Arthur reported smoothly. "He believes you are either dead or in a coma. He’s calling an emergency meeting of the harbor syndicate for eight o'clock tonight at the Grand Baltimore Hotel to declare himself interim chairman."

Gideon let out a soft, low chuckle that sounded thoroughly dangerous. "Let him call his meeting. Let him celebrate."

Then, Gideon turned his amber eyes toward Norah.

The intensity of his gaze was staggering. It felt as though he were looking straight through her skin, reading every thought, every fear, and every secret she possessed.

"Come here, Norah," Gideon said softly.

Norah hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped forward until she was standing right beside his bed.

Gideon reached out. His large, calloused hand—still bearing the tiny needle marks from the arterial lines—gently took her wrist. His touch was warm, firm, and surprisingly gentle.

"Three nights ago," Gideon murmured, his thumb resting against her rapid pulse, "I woke up in the dark. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move my legs. I saw twelve doctors standing around me like vultures waiting for a carcass to cool. And then I saw you."

Norah looked down into his amber eyes. "You told me not to let them finish it."

"I knew someone was killing me," Gideon said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. "I could feel the poison in my veins, but I couldn't speak to name it. You heard me. You paid attention when everyone else was busy preparing my obituaries."

He lifted her hand, pressing his lips lightly against the back of her knuckles. The gesture sent an unexpected spark of heat straight through Norah's chest, making her breath catch in her throat.

"I owe you my life, Norah Blake," Gideon whispered. "In my world, a life debt is sacred. You will never clean a floor again. You will never worry about rent, debts, or survival."

"Mr. Wolf, I don't need charity," Norah said, her pride flaring slightly. "I saw a mistake and I corrected it."

Gideon smiled—a slow, breathtaking curve of his lips that transformed his harsh features into something strikingly handsome.

"It isn't charity," Gideon said. "It's an investment. You have a brilliant mind, sharp eyes, and courage that most of my captains lack. As of this morning, you are my personal medical director and chief advisor on estate security."

"And if Victor Vane finds out I was the one who broke his plan?" Norah asked quietly.