Chapter 6: Her First Day

I woke up to the sound of a heavy door slamming somewhere in the hallway, the vibration rattling the teeth in my skull. Most people in this house probably jumped at loud noises, expecting an assassination attempt. Me? I just groaned and pulled the pillow over my head.

'Duh. Sleep is my favorite hobby—who do they think they are interrupting it?' I grumbled to myself, irritation simmering beneath my half-lidded eyes.

"If that's a hitman, tell him to come back after coffee," I muttered into the fabric.

Then the smell hit me—expensive sandalwood and the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder. Right. The Vitale hideout. My new $50,000-a-day gilded cage.

I scrambled to the bathroom, checking my reflection. The chest binder was tight, but it held. I ruffled my short hair, practicing my "Allizander" scowl.

"You’re a man, Alli. A very rich, very annoyed man," I whispered. I didn't feel like a victim. I felt like a woman who had finally found a way to make a mafia boss pay for her mother’s recovery.

A muffled curse, followed by the sound of glass shattering, echoed from the room next door.

I pushed the connecting door open without knocking.

"You know, for a guy who's supposed to be an untouchable mafia boss, you’re making enough noise to alert every neighbor in the province," I said, leaning against the doorframe.

Gio was standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling marble vanity. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders blocking half the light in the room. His black trousers sat dangerously low on his hips, and his right arm was held stiffly at his side. His left hand was covered in shaving cream, and a broken aftershave bottle lay in the sink.

He glared at me through the mirror, his dark eyes snapping with irritation. "Get out, Samson. I didn't summon you."

"You didn't have to. I followed the sound of the temper tantrum," I shot back, walking toward him despite the death stare he was giving me. "What are you doing? Trying to shave with your left hand? You’re going to slit your throat, and then I’ll have to explain to your mother why her favorite son is a puddle on the floor."

"My mother is not the one you should be worried about," he growled, turning to face me. The height difference was sudden and rude. I had to tilt my head back just to look him in the eye. "And I don't take orders from my employees."

"I'm not an employee, I'm a medical necessity," I countered, reaching for the straight razor he was white-knuckling. "Now, give it here before you lose an ear. You're holding it like a steak knife."

"No."

"Gio."

"Samson, I’m warning you—"

"Oh, stop with the 'warning' bit. You’re injured, you’re grumpy, and you have a patch of shaving cream on your earlobe that makes you look ridiculous. Sit down."

His jaw dropped slightly. For a second, I thought he might actually strangle me. Instead, he let out a sharp, frustrated breath and sat on the edge of the marble counter.

"If you cut me," he whispered, his voice dropping into a threatening purr, "I’ll make sure your funeral is as expensive as your salary."

"Big talk for a guy whose hand is shaking," I muttered. I stepped between his knees to get closer.

The proximity was a disaster for my heart rate. I could feel the heat radiating from his chest—solid, scarred, and far too close. I took the razor, my fingers brushing his. He flinched, his gaze dropping to my eyes.

"Tilt your head up," I commanded.

"You’re very bossy for a nurse," he remarked, though he obeyed, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat.

"And you’re very stubborn for a patient." I applied a fresh layer of cream, my fingers lingering on his jawline. His skin was warm, his pulse thrumming against my fingertips.

I began the first stroke. The room went silent. I was hyper-aware of everything: the way he smelled like rain, the way his chest rose and fell in a slow, heavy rhythm, and the fact that he was staring at me.

"You have... soft hands for a guy," he said suddenly.

"I use moisturizer, Boss. You should try it. Maybe it’ll help with that crusty personality."

He let out a dry, short bark of a laugh. "You really don't know when to shut up, do you? Most men in this city would be shaking just to stand this close to me."

"Well, I'm not 'most men.' I've seen you unconscious and drooling on my pillow, remember? The intimidating boss act doesn't work on me."

I moved to his chin. I had to lean in even closer, my chest nearly brushing his shoulder. I could see the thick fringe of his lashes and the way his naturally pink lips were slightly parted.

To break the tension, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, bright blue candy wrapper. I popped it onto the counter next to him.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Payment for being a good boy," I teased. "I saw you eyeing these in the hospital. Take your medicine today without acting like a child, and it’s yours."

Gio stared at the candy, then back at me. "You’re bribing a mafia don with a five-cent candy?"

"Is it working?"

He reached out with his good hand, not for the candy, but for my wrist. His grip was firm, his thumb resting right over my racing pulse. "You’re a strange man, Allizander Samson. You talk like a brat, but you stand like you're not afraid of anything."

"And you're a high-maintenance patient, Giovanni Vitale," I replied, pulling my hand back. "We’re even."

I finished the shave and wiped his face. He stood up, and the height difference returned like a physical weight.

"Rule one," he said, his voice returning to that cold, 'Boss' authority. "You’re on call 24/7. Rule two: You don't touch the other Kards. You're my nurse. Rule three: You forget everything you saw at that hospital."

"Got it. Selective amnesia is my specialty."

He looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing. "You're too thin," Gio growled. He reached out, his large hand gripping my shoulder. "If an enemy grabs you, you'll snap. I'm paying for a nurse, not a liability."

He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear.

"Get changed. Meet me in the training hall in ten minutes. I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself... and I won't be going easy on you just because you have a pretty face."

"Pretty face?" I called out as he walked toward his closet. "Does that mean you think I'm handsome, Boss?"

"It means you look like you've never been punched," he called back. "I intend to fix that."

"Great," I muttered, heading back to my room. "I'm getting paid fifty grand a day to be a human punching bag. Happy days."