Norah followed the massive bodyguard through the sprawling corridors of the estate.

Her rubber-soled work shoes squeaked against the pristine marble floors with every terrified step she took.

She kept her head down, staring at the intricate patterns woven into the expensive Persian rugs that lined the hallways.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird desperately trying to escape its cage.

She was absolutely certain that she was walking toward her own execution.

She had served the most dangerous man in the city a bowl of garbage intended for the trash bin.

Enzo did not speak a single word as he led her up the grand, sweeping staircase toward the master wing.

The air up here felt entirely different, heavy with the scent of expensive cedar wood, old money, and unspoken threats.

Armed men in tailored suits stood at the corners of every hallway, their eyes tracking her movements with cold indifference.

Norah gripped the straps of her canvas tote bag so tightly that her knuckles turned completely white.

She thought about her brother, the gambling addict who had left her with a fifty thousand dollar debt.

If she died tonight, the loan sharks would have no one left to collect from, but that offered her zero comfort.

Enzo finally stopped in front of a massive set of double doors carved from dark, heavy oak.

He knocked once, a sharp and authoritative sound that echoed through the quiet corridor.

A raspy, exhausted voice called out from the other side, instructing them to enter the room.

Enzo pushed the heavy doors open and gestured for Norah to step inside the dimly lit master study.

The room was vast, lined with towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that looked like they had never been read.

The only light came from a green glass banker’s lamp sitting on a massive mahogany desk in the center of the room.

Behind that desk sat Vincent Rossy, the ruthless king of the Eastern Seaboard syndicate.

He looked absolutely terrifying, not because of his size, but because he looked like a living ghost.

His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, casting dark, hollow shadows across his pale, exhausted face.

His expensive designer suit hung loosely off his shoulders, proving that all the money in the world could not buy health.

He was staring down at the empty white bowl that Enzo had taken from the kitchen thirty minutes earlier.

Norah stopped a few feet away from the desk, her knees trembling so violently she thought she might collapse.

"You made this?" Vincent asked, his voice low and raspy, like gravel grinding against rusted metal.

Norah swallowed the dry lump of pure panic lodged in her throat and nodded her head slowly.

"Yes, sir, but I swear I didn't know it was for you," she stammered defensively.

"I made it from scraps because I was starving, and the chefs had already thrown the ingredients away."

She braced herself for the anger, expecting him to signal Enzo to drag her down to the soundproof basement.

Instead, Vincent simply leaned back in his leather chair, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet room.

"It did not make me sick," Vincent stated plainly, staring directly into her terrified brown eyes.

Norah blinked in confusion, her mind struggling to process the completely unexpected statement.

"I have not been able to keep a meal down in six months without feeling like I was swallowing razor blades," Vincent explained.

"But your garbage soup stayed down."

He picked up the silver spoon and turned it over in his thin, pale fingers, studying the reflection of the light.

"What exactly did you put in it?" he demanded, his dark eyes locking onto hers with intense, intimidating focus.

"Chicken bones, a bruised onion, some garlic with the skin still on, leftover rice, and salt," Norah answered honestly.

"It is what my mother used to make when we couldn't afford groceries at the end of the month."

Vincent remained perfectly still for a long moment, processing the absolute simplicity of the ingredients.

He had been paying world-class chefs thousands of dollars a week to slowly starve him to death.

He looked over at his bodyguard, who was standing silently by the door like a massive, unmoving statue.

"Pay whatever debt she owes to the loan sharks by morning," Vincent ordered Enzo without looking away from Norah.

Norah gasped loudly, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in absolute, unfiltered shock.

"You are no longer a cleaner in my house, Norah," Vincent said, reading her name off the badge pinned to her shirt.

"You are going to cook for me, and only for me, until I am strong enough to stand without feeling dizzy."

"But I am not a chef, sir, I don't know how to cook fancy food," Norah protested weakly.

Vincent leaned forward, the green light casting a predatory glow across his sharp, dangerous features.

"I do not want fancy food, Norah, I want food that keeps me alive."

"You work for me now."