He Woke With a Gun in His Hand—Then the Mafia Boss Saw Who Was Sleeping on His Chest**

The drive back to the Hayes estate took less than four minutes.

The heavy iron gates slammed shut behind us with a resonant CLANG that sounded like the door of a fortress sealing tight. The grounds were crawling with armed men—far more than I had ever seen during my three months of cleaning the hallways. Snipers stood on the roof, rifles swept the tree line, and guard dogs barked along the iron perimeter fences.

Paul marched me straight through the grand foyer, past the terrified household staff who were whispering in huddled groups, and directly into the West Wing.

He didn't knock. He pushed open the double oak doors to Victor’s private master bedroom suite—a room I had never been permitted to enter.

The room was massive, decorated in dark velvet, slate gray stone, and heavy walnut furniture. A roaring fire burned in a stone fireplace against the far wall.

Victor stood by the French balcony doors, wearing black trousers and a soft gray cashmere sweater that hung loosely over his bandaged shoulder. His face was still pale from blood loss, but his eyes were sharp, cold, and burning with a terrifying, white-hot intensity.

When the doors opened, his gaze snapped to me.

He took three long strides across the plush rug, stopping inches from me. His eyes swept over my body—taking in the cut on my cheek, the glass dust on my shoulders, and my shaking hands.

"Are you hit?" Victor demanded. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a rough, dangerous edge.

"No," I whispered. "Just... glass."

Without a word, Victor reached out. His large, warm hand gently cupped the back of my neck, pulling me forward until my forehead rested against his chest. I felt his pulse racing beneath his sweater—hard, fast, and furious.

"Paul," Victor rasped, his eyes fixed on the far wall. "Report."

"Suppressed submachine gun from a stolen sedan," Paul reported, stepping back toward the door. "Professional hit team. They left a message."

Paul held up the photograph.

Victor reached out, taking the small piece of paper. He turned it over, reading the five words written on the back.

A terrible, chilling silence descended over the room. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of Victor’s silent, towering rage.

"They watched my window," Victor said softly. The quietness of his tone was far more frightening than if he had screamed. "They saw her in my study."

"They think she's your weakness, Boss," Paul said quietly. "They think if they take her out, or use her to pull you into the open, you'll slip up."

Victor looked down at me. He raised his thumbs, gently dabbing away a speck of blood near my temple where a piece of flying glass had grazed my skin. His touch was so soft, so impossibly tender compared to the violent reputation he carried, that tears pricked the back of my eyes.

"They made a mistake," Victor whispered.

"Who are they, Victor?" I asked, looking up into his dark eyes. "Who wants me dead?"

Victor looked at Paul. "Clear the floor. Post four men outside this door. Nobody enters without my personal authorization. If Mrs. Daley comes near this wing, fire her."

"Yes, Boss," Paul nodded, stepping out and closing the heavy oak doors behind him.

The latch clicked shut.

Victor turned back to me, taking my cold hands in his broad palms. He led me over to a large leather armchair near the fireplace, gently pushing me down into the soft cushions. He crouched in front of me, his knees resting against the rug, his face inches from mine.

"The man who ordered the hit on me last night is named Julian Vance," Victor explained, his voice low and steady. "He's my rival in the northern shipping district. He wanted to take over my routes while I was bleeding out in my study."

"And the photo?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Julian has a mole inside this house," Victor revealed, his eyes darkening. "Someone took that picture through my study window while we were sleeping and sent it to Julian’s men."

My stomach turned to ice. "Someone in this mansion?"

"Yes," Victor said. He reached out, his long fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Which means you cannot leave this room, Emily."

"What?" I blinked. "Victor, I have a life! I have my apartment! I have..."

"Your brother?" Victor cut in gently.

I froze. "Liam."

"I sent Paul to fetch Liam twenty minutes ago," Victor assured me. "He’s currently being escorted to one of my secure safehouses downtown under twenty-four-hour guard. He is safe. But you..."

Victor leaned closer, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.

"You are staying right here. In my room. Under my protection."

"I'm a maid, Victor," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I clean your floors. People don't risk their lives for the girl who vacuums the rugs."

Victor raised his hand, his knuckles gently brushing along my jawline.

"You sat on a wet rug for fifteen minutes picking up shattered glass so I wouldn't step on it," Victor said, his voice dropping into a soft, breathtaking register. "You held my chest while I was drowning in nightmares. You stopped my bleeding when my own men didn't know what to do."