“YOU CAN STAY WITH ME,” THE POOR MAID SAID TO THE FALLEN MAFIA BOSS—HE NEVER SAW WHAT CAME NEXT

Despite his injury, he had rolled off the mattress and was crouched low beneath the sill, a heavy brass candleholder from her nightstand clutched in his right hand. His face was gray with strain, the fresh stitches pulling tight beneath his bandage, but his eyes were wide, razor-sharp, and entirely focused.

"Two men," Immani whispered, her breath coming fast and shallow. "Black SUV. One of them has a paper. He was looking at the third floor."

"Did they see you?" Cade’s voice was barely a rasp.

"No. I stayed back."

Cade closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, calculating. "It's not Julian's core team. If Julian knew I was here, he wouldn't send two men in an SUV—he’d send ten men with automatic rifles to blow the door off its hinges. Those are street scouts. Looking for blood trails, checking local hospitals, asking neighborhood corner stores."

"They're going to come inside," Immani said, horror creeping up her neck. "This building doesn't have a doorman, Cade. The front lock has been broken since November. Anyone can walk right up the stairs."

"Immani," Cade said, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. His grip was surprisingly firm, his fingers hot against her skin. "Look at me."

She looked at him.

"You are a cleaning woman who just finished a sixteen-hour double shift," he said, his voice dropping into an authoritative, hypnotic calm. "You didn't see anything. You didn't hear anything. You are exhausted, angry at the world, and late for sleep. If they knock, you answer it like you're furious they woke you up."

"And where are you going to go?" she hissed. "Under the bed? There's no space under there! The closet is filled with my winter coats!"

Cade looked around the tiny room. His gaze landed on the narrow, wooden door leading to the fire escape at the back of the kitchen—the one rusted shut three winters ago.

"Help me up," he commanded.

Immani dragged him into the tiny kitchen corner. Beside the discolored stove sat her heavy wooden laundry hamper—a deep, antique trunk her mother had left her, overflowing with dirty sheets, old uniforms, and towels.

"You've got to be kidding," she whispered.

"Get the towels out," Cade ordered, grimacing as he hauled himself over the edge of the wood.

It was a brutally tight fit. Cade was broad-shouldered, over six feet tall, and every movement tore at his wounded side. He crumpled himself into the bottom of the trunk, his face contorting in silent agony as he pulled his knees to his chest. Immani didn't waste a second. She dumped the mountain of dirty blue cleaning uniforms, sour towels, and heavy winter blankets directly on top of him, hiding every inch of his body beneath a pile of laundry.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The heavy wood of her front door rattled in its frame.

Immani froze. The iron skillet sat on the kitchen counter, five feet away. She forced herself to leave it. She smoothed down her messy hair, untied her apron, and threw it onto the floor. She grabbed a half-empty mug of cold coffee, stomped across the room, and ripped the door open three inches, leaving the heavy brass security chain engaged.

"What the hell do you want?" she yelled, her voice raspy, laced with authentic, raw irritation.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway were two men. The taller one wore a leather jacket with a fur collar, a dark scar cutting across his left cheek. His eyes were small, cold, and scanned her face with immediate disrespect. Behind him, the second man held a heavy flashlight, playing the beam over her doorway.

"Sorry to wake you, sweetheart," the tall one said, his voice gravelly. "We're looking for a friend. He got lost last night around Michigan Ave."

"I don't care if he got lost on the moon," Immani barked, stepping into the gap of the door so he couldn't see past her shoulder. "It’s six in the morning. I got off work at four. If you're looking for your buddy, check the drunk tank on 18th Street and stop banging on working people's doors before I call the landlord."

The tall man didn't move. He leaned his arm against the door frame, his eyes drifting past her head into the cramped room.

"Mind if we step inside and check?" he asked softly. "Just a quick look."

"Yes, I damn well mind!" Immani yelled, her voice rising in pitch, echoing down the stairwell. "Who the hell are you? Cops? You got a badge?"

"No badge," the man said, his hand sliding slowly into the side pocket of his leather coat. "Just checking."

"You take one step across that threshold without a badge, and I'm screaming 'fire' loud enough to bring every neighbor on this block out with a baseball bat," Immani threatened, her eyes narrowing into slits. "My uncle is a precinct sergeant on 21st. Try me."

It was a complete lie. Her uncle was a retired postal worker living in Atlanta.

The man in the leather jacket paused. His hand stayed inside his pocket, his fingers clearly wrapped around the handle of something heavy. He looked down the dark, creaking hallway, then back at Immani’s furious, unblinking face. He saw the dark circles under her eyes, the faded clothes, the tiny apartment that looked like it couldn't hold a dog, let alone a six-foot crime boss.

"You see a guy bleeding? Black coat? Tall?" he asked, taking a half-step back.

"I see a lot of bums bleeding on Michigan Avenue every night," she snapped. "None of them are in my apartment. Now get out before I get my phone."

The tall man stared at her for three long, agonizing seconds. Then he let out a short, nasty spit onto the hallway floor.

"Let's go," he muttered to his partner. "She's just a poor maid."

They turned and walked down the creaking stairs, their heavy boots echoing until the front door slammed shut below.

Immani closed the door. She slid the deadbolt into place, attached the chain, and then collapsed against the wood, her knees buckling completely. She sat on the cold floor, her chest heaving, tears of pure adrenaline pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Immani?" a muffled voice came from the kitchen corner.

She pushed herself up, stumbled to the laundry hamper, and threw the heavy blankets off.

Cade lay inside, his chest rising and falling rapidly, blood seeping through his fresh white bandages from the exertion. But he was looking up at her with an expression she hadn't seen on his face before.

Respect.

"You lied well," he said, his voice rough.

"I didn't lie about being furious," she panted, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "They called me a 'poor maid.' They looked right through me like I was garbage."

Cade reached up, taking her hand to help pull himself up out of the trunk.

"People like them always make that mistake," Cade said softly, sitting on the edge of the wooden box, his eyes fixed on her. "They think because someone wears a uniform or works with their hands, they don't have teeth. They forget that the people at the bottom see everything."

"They'll be back," Immani whispered. "If they don't find you on the streets today, they'll start checking every building on this block."

"Then we don't wait for them," Cade said, his jaw tightening as he stood up, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Is there a payphone nearby that doesn't have a camera?"

"There's one inside the laundromat three blocks down," she said. "Out of order, but if you hit the coin return twice, the line still connects."