The kitchen of Vincenzo’s Trattoria was vast, modern, and gleaming with stainless steel prep tables, but the small private office tucked behind the pantry was lined with dark mahogany shelves, leather armchairs, and framed photographs of old men in dark suits standing along the Boston waterfront.

Elena had managed to haul the unconscious man onto a wide leather sofa in the center of the office.

She had flipped on a single desk lamp, casting a dim, golden glow over his pale face.

"Mama, is he sleeping?" Mila asked softly, sitting on a wooden chair near the door, her small boots dangling six inches above the rug. She was chewing thoughtfully on a crust of the day-old bread they had brought inside.

"He's hurt, sweetie," Elena said, her hands busy pulling clean white cotton towels from a supply cabinet in the hallway. "Stay there. Don't touch anything."

Elena returned to the sofa, carrying a bowl of warm water, antiseptics she had found in a commercial first-aid kit, and a pair of heavy kitchen shears.

She unbuttoned his soaked silk shirt, her fingers brushing against a chest covered in dark hair, old surgical scars, and a horrific, purple-and-black bruise blossoming over his left ribs.

Two ribs were almost certainly broken. His breathing was shallow, ragged, but steady.

"You're a very lucky man," Elena murmured, dipping a towel into the warm water and gently wiping the caked blood from his face.

Up close, without the mud and rain, he was a striking man. His facial features were sharp, hard-carved, with a strong jawline covered in dark stubble. He looked like a man who had never asked for permission for anything in his entire life.

As she cleaned the deep cut near his hairline, his dark eyes suddenly snapped open.

He didn't move a muscle. He didn't gasp. He simply transitioned from unconsciousness to total, lethal awareness in a single heartbeat.

His right hand shot out, pinching Elena’s throat with terrifying precision, forcing her head back.

"Who are you?" he growled, his raspy voice like iron dragging over gravel.

Elena didn't scream. She didn't struggle. She simply raised the bloody towel in her hand so he could see it.

"I’m the person stopping you from bleeding onto this velvet couch," Elena said, her voice tight against the pressure on her windpipe. "And my name is Elena."

He stared at her through the dim light, his gray eyes burning with an intense, untamed heat. Slowly, his gaze shifted past her shoulder, settling on the little girl sitting on the wooden chair, watching him with big, curious brown eyes.

Mila didn't look scared. She held her bread crust in both hands and smiled faintly.

"Hello," Mila said softly. "Your suit is wet."

The man’s grip on Elena’s throat loosened. His hand dropped back onto his chest, a long, weary sigh escaping his lungs.

"A child," he murmured, rubbing his face with his large palm. "I was saved by a woman and a child."

"Saved is a strong word," Elena said, rubbing her neck as she picked up a roll of gauze. "You have two broken ribs, a concussion, and a cut that really needs six stitches. I can clean it and wrap it, but you need a real doctor."

"No doctors," he said flatly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "No hospitals."

Elena paused, holding the gauze. "If I call an ambulance, the people who hurt you will know where you are?"

"Yes," he said, looking straight into her eyes. "They control the precinct. They control the city emergency services. If you call an ambulance, three men with silencers will arrive before the paramedics."

Elena’s heart skipped a beat. She set the gauze down, her hazel eyes narrowing.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly.

The man leaned his head back against the leather cushion, a dark, heavy shadow falling over his face.

"My name is Alessandro Moretti," he said quietly.

Elena froze.

Even an overworked single mother who cleaned hospital floors at night knew that name.

Alessandro Moretti was the Don of the Moretti Syndicate—the ruler of the North End, the man who controlled every shipping dock, union hall, and private club from South Boston to the New Hampshire border. The news called him a shipping magnate. The streets called him Il Re—The King.

And he was lying on a couch in a closed restaurant, bleeding onto her towels.

"You're... the mafia boss," Elena whispered, taking a half-step backward.

"I am a businessman who had a very bad Tuesday," Alessandro corrected smoothly, though a flash of intense pain crossed his jaw as he spoke. He looked at her, his dark eyes analyzing every line of terror on her face. "If you want to leave now, Elena, I will not stop you. Take the key. Take whatever money is in the cash register in the front. Take your daughter and go."

Elena looked at the cash register down the hall. There was probably three or four hundred dollars in that drawer. Enough for rent. Enough for Mila's boots. Enough to buy them two weeks of safety.

Then she looked at Alessandro Moretti. He was forty-five, powerful, dangerous, and completely helpless. If she left him here, his enemies would find him before dawn.

She looked at Mila.

"Mama?" Mila asked, sensing the sudden shift in the air. "Are we going home?"

Elena looked at the bottle of disinfectant, then at the mafia boss watching her with quiet, solemn acceptance.

"No, sweetie," Elena said softly, stepping back to the sofa and unscrewing the cap of the disinfectant. "We’re going to fix his head first."

Alessandro looked up at her, a profound, unreadable expression entering his dark gray eyes.

"You are a very strange woman, Elena Carter," he whispered.

"I’m an eighty-six-dollar-a-month mother," Elena corrected, pressing the alcohol-soaked pad firmly against his wound. "We don't get to choose our company."