Fifty thousand dollars for three months of work sounded like salvation until I learned the job involved bathing, dressing, and rehabilitating a wheelchair-bound mob boss whose last three nurses had quit. I took it because losing my doctoral program terrified me more than any criminal ever could—but the first time I met Massimo Pascale, I realized the money was probably the least dangerous part of the arrangement.

Sleep was impossible. I spent the remainder of the night sitting in a hardbacked chair near the sofa, my eyes fixed on Massimo’s steady breathing. He had fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber shortly after I administered a mild painkiller. I sat there in the dimly lit safehouse, listening to the rain batter the reinforced windows, my mind racing through the shattered fragments of my life.

By 6:00 AM, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, gray dawn. I needed answers. I pulled my phone from my pocket. It had been on silent, but the screen was lit up with notifications. Fourteen missed calls. All from Camila.

My stomach churned. I walked into the adjoining kitchen, putting as much distance between myself and the sleeping mob boss as possible, and hit redial.

She answered on the first ring.

“Tessa! Oh my god, are you alright?” Camila’s voice was frantic, pitched high with panic. “Where are you? The estate was hit last night. The police are everywhere.”

“I’m fine,” I kept my voice flat, devoid of the terror I was actually feeling. “But I don’t think you are calling because you’re worried about me, Camila.”

A heavy pause hung on the line. The kind of silence that confirms guilt better than a confession ever could.

“Tessa, listen to me,” she said, her tone dropping into the measured, calculated voice of the corporate lawyer I knew. “Massimo Pascale is a dangerous man. You need to get away from him. Tell me where you are. I can send someone to extract you.”

“Extract me?” I echoed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “You make it sound like I’m a spy. You sent me into a warzone, Camila. You told me it was just a physical therapy job. You didn't tell me his uncle was trying to finish the job he started with that car accident.”

“I didn't know the uncle was making a move this soon!” she blurted out.

The words hung in the air. This soon.

“You knew,” I whispered, a cold wave of betrayal washing over me. “You knew they were going to kill him. You set me up. I was supposed to be the naive, civilian collateral damage, wasn't I? Or worse, you thought my presence would lower his guard.”

“Tessa, it’s complicated. Massimo’s uncle, Vincenzo, controls the port authorities. Massimo was squeezing him out. Vincenzo just wants his territory back. It’s business.”

“He’s paralyzed, Camila! And someone tried to inject him with a lethal dose of potassium last night!”

“Where is he?” she demanded, dropping all pretenses. “If he’s alive, Vincenzo will tear Boston apart looking for him. If you are with him, you are a dead woman walking. Tell me where you are, and I can protect you.”

I looked back into the main room. Massimo was awake. He was sitting up, his dark eyes locked on me from across the room. He didn’t look angry. He looked like a predator watching prey walk into a trap.

“I don’t know where I am,” I lied, my voice steadying. “I ran when the shooting started. I’m hiding in some alley in the North End. Don't call me again.”

I hung up, crushing the phone in my hand, and walked back into the living space.

“She works for Vincenzo,” I said softly, standing before Massimo.

“I know.” He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the sofa. He didn’t ask me to help him this time. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up. His legs shook, but they held. He stood tall, towering over me, a physical manifestation of power and suppressed violence.

“If you knew, why did you hire me?” I demanded, anger finally eclipsing my fear. “Why let her place me in your house if you knew she was compromised?”

“Keep your enemies close,” he replied smoothly, taking a tentative step forward. “I needed to know how Vincenzo was getting information. When Camila recommended a desperate, broke student with no ties to the criminal underworld, I knew it was a Trojan horse. I assumed you were an assassin, playing the long game.”

“Me? An assassin?” I threw my hands up in disbelief. “I cry when I step on a snail!”

Massimo’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “I realized on day two you weren't a killer. You reorganized my medication cabinet by alphabetical order and color-coded my physical therapy bands. You’re entirely too neurotic to be a hitman.”

“I’m professional!”

“You’re a civilian who got dragged into a mafia civil war because you have a good heart and empty pockets,” Massimo corrected, stepping closer. The air between us suddenly felt very thick, very warm. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently taking my phone from my grip.

Without breaking eye contact, he dropped the phone onto the floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. The sound of shattering glass made me jump.

“Camila will track that signal,” he stated simply. “From this second forward, Tessa, you do not exist. Your apartment, your bank accounts, your doctoral program—they are gone. Until Vincenzo is dead, you belong to me.”

I stared at him, my breath shallow. “I don't belong to anyone.”

Massimo leaned down, his face so close I could smell the mint and dark coffee on his breath. “You do now. Because if Vincenzo finds you, he will torture you for days just to see if I care enough to come save you.”