My beat-up 1998 Honda Civic died three feet from the gates of a mafia boss’s mansion, and somehow that wasn’t the worst thing that happened that day. Twenty minutes later, I was standing over Desmond Gallagher, the most feared man I’d ever met, pulling the blanket off his paralyzed legs while his hand crushed my wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

I looked from Desmond’s eyes to the motorized wheelchair parked near the far wall. It weighed nearly three hundred pounds, a custom-built piece of machinery designed to support his massive frame.

"You can't sit up on your own right now," I hissed, keeping my voice below the level of the rain outside. "Your lower abs are completely uncooperative after that spasm. If you drop, we make enough noise to bring them running back."

"Then don't let me drop, Maya," he said.

It was the first time he had used my name. It sounded strange coming from him—heavy, dark, like a pact signed in blood.

"We have seven minutes," I said.

I moved with the practiced efficiency of a nurse who had spent four years transferring two-hundred-pound stroke patients in cramped county hospital rooms. I pulled the wheelchair closer, locking the wheels into place directly parallel to the edge of the mattress. I cleared the footrests and tossed the heavy fleece blanket over the armrest.

Desmond pulled himself up using his massive upper body strength, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his shirt. His biceps bulged as he hooked his elbows into the transfer belt I quickly strapped around his waist.

"On three," I whispered, digging my rubber-soled shoes into the hardwood floor. "Don't try to bear weight on your legs. Just pivot."

"I know how my body works, Nurse," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"One. Two. Three."

He hauled his torso forward, and I took the brunt of his weight against my chest. For two terrifying seconds, his center of gravity drifted backward, his dead legs catching on the edge of the fitted sheet. His breath hit my neck—hot, ragged, smelling of mint and stale whiskey. My knees buckled slightly under his immense frame, but I locked my core, dug my heels into the floor, and swung his hips with everything I had.

He landed in the leather seat of the wheelchair with a low, heavy thud.

Desmond gasped, his face going pale as the sudden shift in position triggered a sharp wave of postural hypotension. His head drooped forward, his chin resting against his chest.

"Stay with me," I whispered fiercely, grabbing his face in both of my hands and forcing his head up. His skin was cold now, clammy with shock. "Desmond. Look at me."

His blue eyes fluttered, then focused sharply on my face. His fingers reached up, closing around my wrists, holding my hands against his cheeks for a fraction of a second.

"I'm here," he rasped.

I picked up the SIG Sauer from the mattress and placed it directly into his right hand. His fingers wrapped around the grip with an ease that told me he had held a gun long before he had ever needed a wheelchair. He slid the weapon under the folded fleece blanket across his lap, completely concealing it from view.

"Under the armrest," Desmond murmured, pointing a thumb down toward the control panel of the wheelchair. "Press the red toggle switch beneath the joystick."

I leaned down and felt beneath the black plastic casing. My fingers hit a small, recessed toggle. I flipped it.

A tiny, green LED light flickered to life on the side of the chair, followed by a faint, high-frequency hum that vibrated through the floorboards.

"What did that do?" I asked.

"It activates the silent alarm linked to my private security team in South Boston," Desmond said, his expression hardening into absolute stone. "Not the family guards. My men. The ones who answer only to me."

"How long until they get here?"

"Twenty minutes," Desmond replied.

I checked my watch. "Victor gave us ten."

"Then we are going to have a conversation to pass the time," Desmond said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy calm that made him the most feared man in the city. "Position yourself behind my chair, Maya. And whatever happens, do not move."

Before I could answer, the bedroom door was kicked fully open.

Victor stepped into the room, holding a heavy chrome revolver in his right hand. His two henchmen followed, their hands inside their raincoats.

"Time's up, Desmond," Victor said, his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on Desmond sitting upright in his wheelchair near the center of the floor. Victor paused, clearly surprised to see Desmond out of bed. "Well. Look at you. The crippled Don decided to take a seat."

Desmond didn't flinch. He sat straight, his massive shoulders squared, his hands resting casually beneath the fleece blanket on his lap.

"You always were impatient, Victor," Desmond said smoothly. "That's why my father never gave you your own crew. You think with your stomach, not your head."

Victor’s face flushed dark red. He raised the revolver, pointing it straight at Desmond’s chest. "Your father is six feet under the ground, and your brother Julian is running the family now. You're just a ghost in a rolling chair, Desmond. Sign the papers or I shoot the girl first, then leave you to bleed out on this expensive rug."

I stood behind Desmond’s chair, my hands gripping the rubber handles so hard my knuckles turned white. I could feel the cold tremor running through the aluminum frame of the chair—not from fear, but from the electric current of Desmond’s pure, concentrated focus.

"You won't shoot her, Victor," Desmond said quietly.

Victor sneered. "And why the hell wouldn't I?"

"Because," Desmond said, his voice echoing in the silent room like a death sentence, "she hasn't finished taking my blood pressure yet."