"No caretaker had survived more than three days with me after the accident—not because the work was too hard, but because as a paralyzed mafia boss, I made sure they understood how unwanted they were. Then a penniless maid named Fay Willis walked into my room, ignored my threats, knelt in front of my wheelchair during a violent muscle spasm, and did something no one in my entire household had managed since I lost the use of my legs."

Fay hadn't left. In fact, her modest basement quarters had officially become her permanent home, and Mrs. Gable had stopped hiring backup candidates altogether. The shattered plates stopped. The screaming matches turned into stubborn, silent standoffs that usually ended with me reluctantly eating whatever balanced meal she placed in front of me.

She began wheeling me out into the private glass conservatory behind the mansion, where sunlight flooded through the panes and grapevines hung heavy from the rafters. For hours, while I reviewed shipping manifests and dictated orders to Carmine over encrypted comms, Fay sat nearby reading thick financial textbooks, working toward the college degree she had abandoned when her family lost everything.

Yet, peace in our world was never permanent.

One afternoon in mid-September, Carmine burst into the conservatory without knocking—a breach of protocol that immediately set my teeth on edge.

"Boss," Carmine said, breathing heavily, his face pale beneath his dark tan. "We have a problem. A serious one."

I looked up from the financial ledger on my lap. "Speak."

"It's Viktor Vance," Carmine said, lowering his voice as if the glass walls had ears. "The Bratva boss from Brighton Beach. Word on the street is he’s been quietly buying up our former debt-holders and shaking down our independent gambling dens in Queens. He thinks your paralysis made us weak. And... he knows about the maid."

My blood ran cold. The temperature in the conservatory seemed to drop ten degrees.

"What did you say?" I asked, every word dropping like lead weights.

"One of Vance's scouts spotted Fay leaving the local grocery store in town yesterday," Carmine muttered, looking down at his shoes. "They followed her cab back to the gates. Vance knows you've got a civilian living in the house. He's putting two and two together. He thinks she's your weak spot."

Before I could answer, the heavy double doors at the end of the conservatory pushed open.

Fay walked in, carrying a tray of iced tea and lemon slices. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Carmine’s tense posture and the lethal, frozen fury carved into my face.

"Is everything alright?" Fay asked, her voice calm, though her eyes darted between us.

"Go to your room, Fay," I commanded, my voice dropping into a harsh, authoritarian tone I hadn't used in weeks.

Fay didn't move. She set the tray down on a marble table, crossed her arms, and looked directly at me. "Not until you tell me what's going on. I'm not a child, Dominic. If someone is threatening this house, I have a right to know."

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," I snapped, wheeling forward. "Viktor Vance isn't some low-level punk like Santoro. He runs Russian syndicates, human trafficking, and wet-work squads that don't leave bodies behind. He is hunting for leverage against me, and you just handed it to him on a silver platter!"

Fay stood her ground. She didn't flinch, she didn't look away, and she didn't apologize.

"Then protect yourself," Fay said quietly. "Stop hiding behind anger and start fighting back. Because if you think I'm going to run away just because some Russian mobster is sniffing around, you don't know me at all."

She turned around and walked out of the conservatory, leaving the heavy oak doors swinging behind her.

Carmine stared after her in absolute disbelief. "Boss... I swear, that girl has ice water in her veins. Most people would be packing their bags by now."

"She's an idiot," I muttered, gripping the wheels of my chair so hard the rubber groaned. But beneath the anger, a terrifying, unfamiliar panic clawed at my chest.