The mansion rose above the mountainside like a fortress—stone walls, ten-foot gates, clipped hedges, and not a single flower anywhere. My car coughed once after I killed the engine, then died like it had finally given up on me too.

Dr. Arthur Vance was a man in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate beige trench coat, carrying a leather medical bag that cost more than my rusted sedan. He walked up the grand staircase with the smooth, easy confidence of a man who believed he owned the world.

When he reached the top landing and saw me standing outside the master suite holding a stainless steel tray of bloody debris, he stopped dead in his tracks.

His pale blue eyes flicked from my faded scrubs to the tray, then back to my face. A sharp flash of irritation crossed his features.

“Who are you?” Vance demanded, his voice thin and arrogant. “Where is the house manager? I explicitly instructed Leo that no more temporary staff were to be admitted into Mr. Rossi’s quarters without my express authorization.”

“I’m Nora Hayes,” I said, taking two deliberate steps toward him. “The nurse who spent the night fixing the death trap you sewed into Dominic Rossi’s shoulder.”

Vance’s face flushed bright red. “How dare you! I am a board-certified surgeon with thirty years of—”

“With thirty years of experience, you should know that sealing necrotic tissue beneath a primary suture guarantees gas gangrene and systemic sepsis,” I interrupted, stepping directly into his personal space, holding up the tray so he could see the black nylon thread. “You didn't use surgical catgut. You didn't leave a drainage tube. You closed a high-caliber gunshot wound like you were patching an old leather boot.”

Vance’s eyes darted nervously toward the closed doors of the bedroom. “Mr. Rossi had severe arterial bleeding! I acted to save his life under extreme circumstances—”

“You acted to make sure he died quietly in his sleep so nobody could blame you,” I said flatly. “The infection was hours away from killing him. If I hadn't cut those stitches last night, Leo would be picking out a coffin for his boss right now.”

“You absurd, insolent girl!” Vance hissed, reaching out to grab my arm. “You have no authority here! You are a temporary hire who broke protocol! I am ordering you off this property immediately!”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

The low, raspy voice tore through the hallway like a crack of thunder.

Vance froze, his hand stopping inches from my sleeve.

We both turned.

Dominic Rossi was standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

He was holding onto the heavy wooden frame for balance, draped in a dark silk robe that hung open at his chest, revealing the fresh, immaculate white dressing I had applied to his shoulder. He looked pale, exhausted, and barely able to stand on his own two feet—but the lethal authority radiating from his dark eyes was terrifying enough to drop a grown man to his knees.

Behind him stood Leo, his hand resting casually inside his suit jacket, right over his holstered sidearm.

“M-Mr. Rossi,” Vance stammered, taking an involuntary step backward, his confidence completely crumbling into terror. “You... you shouldn't be out of bed! You’re severely ill—”

“I was ill, Arthur,” Dominic said, his voice slow, gravelly, and terrifyingly calm. “Because the doctor I paid two hundred thousand dollars a year was slowly poisoning me from the inside out.”

“That’s a lie!” Vance squeaked, sweat breaking out across his forehead. “This girl... she’s lying to you! She’s trying to cover up her own mistakes!”

Dominic didn't look at Vance. He looked at me. His dark gaze drifted down to the tray in my hands, taking in the bloody thread and the clean surgical precision of my work.

“Leo,” Dominic said softly.

“Yes, boss?”

“Take Dr. Vance down to the basement,” Dominic commanded, his voice devoid of any human emotion. “Find out who paid him to shut my wound.”

Vance gasped, dropping his leather medical bag onto the Persian rug. “No! Dominic, please! It was Marco Moretti! He threatened my family! He said he’d burn my clinic to the ground if I didn't make sure you didn't wake up from the fever! Please!”

Leo didn't waste a single second. He stepped forward, grabbed Vance by the back of his expensive trench coat, and dragged the screaming, sobbing doctor down the corridor toward the service stairs as if he were nothing more than a bag of trash.

The hall went silent again, except for the faint sound of rain tapping against the tall stained-glass windows.

Dominic stood in the doorway, his chest heaving with the effort of standing upright. His knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe, his knees visibly shaking under his silk robe.

I immediately set the tray down on a side table and rushed to his side.

“What are you doing out of bed?” I scolded him, placing my shoulder beneath his left arm to support his weight. “You just survived a septic fever! If your blood pressure drops right now, you’re going to pass out and crack your head open on the floor!”

Dominic leaned heavily against me. His body was massive, solid muscle and radiant heat, forcing me to shift my feet to hold us both up.

Despite his weakness, he didn't pull away. He allowed me to guide him slowly back into the bedroom, step by agonizing step, until we reached the edge of the bed.

He sank back onto the mattress with a low groan, his jaw clenched tight as he rested his head against the pillows.

I grabbed the blanket, pulling it up over his chest, and checked the dressing on his shoulder. No fresh blood. The stitches held.

“You’re an idiot,” I muttered, stepping back to check his IV drip. “A very powerful, very stubborn idiot.”

Dominic looked up at me through dark eyelashes. A faint, genuine trace of amusement danced in the depths of his dark eyes—a sight so striking it made my breath hitch in my throat.

“Nobody has ever called me an idiot and lived to tell the story, Nora Hayes,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion.

“Then add it to my bill,” I replied, checking his pulse. “Along with an extra charge for dealing with dirty doctors.”

Dominic reached into the pocket of his silk robe. He pulled out a thick, heavy paper envelope sealed with red wax and set it on the nightstand beside his bed.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Dominic said flatly. “In cash.”

I stared at the envelope. Fifty thousand dollars. That was more than my entire annual salary at the hospital. That was enough to pay my rent for three years, clear my credit card debt, buy a working car, and put money into a savings account for the first time in my life.

My heart thudded against my chest, but as I looked from the money to Dominic’s tired, watchful face, my pride flared up.

“I don't take bribes, Mr. Rossi,” I said, keeping my voice cool. “My rate was five hundred dollars a day. That’s what Leo promised me.”

Dominic watched me closely, his eyes sharp as razors. “It’s not a bribe. It’s an advance for the next two weeks. You’re not leaving this estate until my shoulder is fully healed.”

“I have a life, Mr. Rossi,” I said, though the lie tasted like ash in my mouth. My apartment was an empty box, my bank account was in the negative, and my car was currently dying in his driveway.

“You have an eviction notice on your apartment door,” Dominic corrected me smoothly, his voice dropping into that dark, omniscient tone of a king who knew every secret in his city. “Your bank account has four dollars and twelve cents in it. And your sedan has a blown head gasket.”

I froze, my hands tightening around my clipboard. “You searched my background?”

“I don't let anyone into my bedroom without knowing everything about them, Nora,” he said softly. “I know you lost your father to cancer three years ago. I know you worked eighty hours a week at the ER to pay off his medical debts. And I know you’re the only person in this city who looked at me last night and didn't see a mob boss—you just saw a dying man.”

He pointed his chin toward the envelope on the nightstand.

“Take the money. Pay your rent. Buy a car that doesn't sound like a dying lawnmower. Stay here and finish your job.”

I stared at the red wax seal on the envelope.

Every logical instinct in my brain was screaming at me to take my five hundred dollars and run as far away from the Rossi crime syndicate as my legs could carry me. These men lived in a world of gunfire, betrayal, and dark basements. Getting close to Dominic Rossi was like standing next to a bonfire—eventually, you were going to get burned.

But as I looked down at his dark eyes—at the fierce, unwavering trust he was unexpectedly offering me—I realized I was already too deep in the flame.

Slowly, I reached out and picked up the envelope.

“Fine,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But rule number two was that I only speak when spoken to. I’m changing that rule.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Dominic’s lips. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” I said, adjusting his blanket. “Rule number two is now: what the nurse says, goes. If I tell you to sleep, you sleep. If I tell you to drink water, you drink water. If you fight me, I’ll use a bigger needle.”