I never imagined the most feared crime boss in Chicago would show up at my bedroom door drunk, begging me for help. Hours later, I was hiding him beneath the servants’ staircase while powerful men searched the mansion for him, and one whispered confession shattered everything I thought I knew about him.

The knock came at exactly 2:07 a.m.

Three heavy, hollow thuds against the dark oak door of my quarters. It wasn't loud enough to wake the rest of the domestic staff down the hall, but it was insistent enough to yank me straight out of a exhausted sleep. Outside, rain pounded ruthlessly against the tall, iron-cased windows of the estate, turning the lakefront air into a freezing downpour.

I pulled my worn cotton robe over my shoulders, my pulse quickening. A knock at this hour usually meant a plumbing emergency in the West Wing or an urgent call from the night clinic regarding my nine-year-old brother, Micah. I cracked the door open, my hand trembling slightly against the brass handle.

I expected a frantic head housekeeper or a security guard. I never expected Raphael Orsini.

My employer—the most feared, enigmatic man in Chicago, the silent ruler of the northern territory—was leaning heavily against the doorframe. The perfectly tailored three-piece suits he wore like armor were replaced by a drenched cashmere coat clinging to his broad frame. His silk tie hung loose around his neck, his crisp white shirt was buttoned crookedly, and a dark split marred his lower lip.

And then there was the smell: rich, oak-aged whiskey.

Raphael never drank. For two years, I had worked as a night maid in his sprawling mansion, polishing mahogany desks, organizing leather-bound ledgers, and watching him command dangerous, hardened men with a quiet, terrifying calm. I had never seen him raise his voice. I had never seen a single hair out of place.

Tonight, he could barely stand.

His stormy gray eyes, usually cold and unreadable, locked onto mine with a desperate, feverish intensity.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he rasped.

Those six words hung in the cold hallway, freezing the air in my lungs. Every sensible instinct screamed at me to step back and shut the door. I was an employee, replaceable and insignificant. I needed this job. The Orsini medical insurance policy was the only reason Micah was currently receiving experimental leukemia treatments at the university hospital. If I was caught bringing the boss into my private quarters, or worse, getting dragged into whatever storm was chasing him, I would lose everything.

But as he swayed on his feet, his jaw tight with agony, I couldn't leave him.

I reached out, grabbed his soaked wool sleeve, and hauled him inside. He was pure muscle and solid weight, nearly knocking me back, but I steadied him, slipping his arm over my shoulder and easing him quietly down the narrow service corridor. We slipped into the disused auxiliary kitchen tucked behind the pantry—a dimly lit, quiet room where I usually sat studying my nursing textbooks after midnight.

“Sit,” I whispered.

He collapsed into an old wooden chair, rainwater dripping off his dark hair onto the floorboards. I rushed to fetch a glass of tap water, pressing it into his cold fingers. He didn't drink. He just stared out the blacked-out window, his shoulders hunched.

“They all need something from me,” he murmured, his voice laced with an exhaustion so deep it sounded shattered. “Money. Orders. Protection. Decisions. Every single minute of every single day.” He swallowed hard, his gray eyes searching the shadows of the room. “Not one of them asks if I’m tired.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Then his eyes shifted to me.

“You’re different,” he said softly.

I frowned, crossing my arms to hide my nervous shivering. “You’re drunk, Mr. Orsini.”

“You’ve never asked me for anything, Elena.”

“I get paid to do my job,” I replied tightly. “That’s our arrangement.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He looked up at me, his gaze cutting straight through my defenses.

I knew what he meant, and it terrified me. For twenty-four months, I had convinced myself I was completely invisible to him—just a shadow in a black uniform wiping down his glass tables. Knowing he had noticed me felt dangerous.

“How much did you drink?” I asked, forcing my tone into a crisp, practical nurse's cadence.

“Enough to finally tell the truth.”

“You’ll regret saying this tomorrow morning.”

“No,” he said, his lips curving into a faint, weary smile. “I won't.”

“Yes, you will.”

“You always think five steps ahead, don't you?” he breathed.

“I have to,” I whispered. “Nobody else is going to look out for me or my brother.”

Before he could answer, the faint thud of heavy boots echoed from the main staircase two corridors away. Voices—harsh, low, and unfamiliar—muffled through the heavy walls. Raphael’s expression shifted in an instant. The drunkenness evaporated, replaced by the lethal instinct of a cornered predator. He reached instinctively for his hip, but his holster was empty.

Without a second thought, I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the hidden alcove beneath the old servants' staircase—a tight, forgotten storage space behind a sliding pine panel.

As I pulled the panel shut, sealing us in pitch darkness, Raphael leaned in, his warm, whiskey-laced breath brushing against my ear.

“One hundred seven nights,” he whispered into the dark.