She opened her eyes, stared directly into my face—since I had spent the last two hours sitting quietly in my wheelchair beside the bed, watching her—and the color drained completely from her cheeks.
She scrambled backward off the mattress, hitting the hardwood floor with a muffled gasp, her hands flying up to smooth her rumpled uniform.
“Mr. Vance! I—I can explain!” she stammered, her voice cracking with mortification. “I was cleaning the master bathroom, and I just... I had a migraine, and I sat down for a second, and I didn't mean to—oh god, are you going to fire me?”
I watched her scramble to her feet, her cheeks burning bright red. A rare, genuine smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
“If I fired every person who fell asleep on the job in this house, I’d have to run the entire estate myself,” I said dryly.
Emma stopped, blinking in surprise. She stared at me, waiting for the trademark rage or cold mockery. When none came, she let out a long, shuddering breath of relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered, grabbing her cleaning supplies. “It won’t happen again.”
“Emma,” I called out as she reached the bedroom door.
She paused, looking back nervously over her shoulder.
“You’re working too many hours,” I said quietly, leaning forward in my chair. “Between the diner downtown and four nights a week here, you’re going to collapse permanently. That’s not a sustainable life.”
Emma’s jaw tightened, a defensive wall snapping back into place. “Bills don’t care if my life is sustainable, Mr. Vance. My mother’s care facility sent a final notice yesterday. If I don't pay five thousand dollars by the end of the month, they’re transferring her to a state-run home. So excuse me if I’m a little tired.”
She turned and hurried out of the room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her.
I sat in the silence of the bedroom for a long time, tapping my fingers against the armrest of my wheelchair. Five thousand dollars. To Emma, that was an insurmountable mountain of debt that threatened to crush her spirit. To me, it was pocket change—the cost of a decent bottle of scotch or a tip for an informant.
Later that afternoon, I buzzed Luke into my study.
“Check on Emma Carter’s mother at the Evanston memory-care facility,” I ordered without looking up from my tablet.
Luke raised an eyebrow, leaning against the bookshelf. “Thinking of playing white knight, Danny? I thought you said civilians were liabilities.”
“Just pay the outstanding balance on her account,” I snapped, my voice cutting through his sarcasm. “Clear her entire debt. Do it anonymously through a charitable trust so she never traces it back to me. And while you’re at it, restructure the estate payroll—double her hourly rate starting this week, and list her title as ‘Executive Estate Coordinator’ so she doesn't spend half her life scrubbing floors.”
Luke stared at me for a moment, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. “You’re in deep, boss. If Moretti’s men find out you’ve got a soft spot for this girl, she won't just be a cleaner anymore. She’ll be a target.”
“Moretti won't find out,” I said coldly. “Because anyone who mentions her name outside these walls won't live long enough to draw a second breath.”
The financial relief hit Emma like a miraculous shockwave two days later. When she came in for her shift, her eyes were bright, her step was lighter, and she practically floated down the hallway, marveling at the mysterious benefactor who had mysteriously cleared her mother’s medical debt.
Watching her smile for the first time since she’d arrived at the estate made me feel something I hadn't felt in nine years: hope.
It was a dangerous, intoxicating weakness. And in the underworld, weaknesses always find a way to bleed.