The Mafia Boss Saw His Maid Hiding a Broken Arm—By Morning, Fifteen Men Had Vanished

The door of the storage room opened without a sound three minutes later.

Dr. Reyes entered first—an elderly man with steady hands and silver-rimmed glasses who carried a vintage leather medical case. Behind him came Matteo, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his ear to his collarbone, his face impassive as granite.

"Compound fracture of the radius," Reyes diagnosed instantly, merely glancing at the angle. He moved to Kate's side, opening his kit with practiced efficiency. "I need to set a temporary splint and administer an analgesic before we move her to the infirmary on the lower level."

"Do it cleanly," Damon said, not moving from where he stood. "And be gentle."

Kate flinched as Reyes cut away the starched uniform sleeve. When the fabric peeled away from the bruised, ruptured skin, Damon's jaw set so tightly the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.

"Matteo," Damon said, his eyes never leaving Kate's pale face.

"Boss."

"Preston Caldwell is downstairs. Find him. Who was he with?"

Matteo pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his breast pocket. "Caldwell brought four associates with him tonight. Julian Vance—the councilman's nephew. Mark Thorne from the maritime brokerage. Garrett Cole, whose father owns the regional grid. And two off-duty State Troopers acting as private security."

"Seven," Damon murmured. "Who else was in the library when it happened?"

"We pulled the hallway camera feeds from the second floor," Matteo answered quietly. "The library door was opened at 9:18. Caldwell, Vance, Thorne, and Cole went in. Three other men—associates of the Caldwell family from the private equity firm in Manhattan—were standing guard in the corridor, laughing. Senator Caldwell was at the bar down the hall, pretending not to see."

"That makes eight in the inner circle," Damon said, his tone chillingly calm. "And the men who drove them?"

"Two drivers in the motor court. Three private security guards near the fountain."

"Thirteen," Damon counted. "And the two state troopers."

"Fifteen men in total," Matteo confirmed.

Kate looked up through a haze of tears as Dr. Reyes slipped a needle into the vein of her good arm. The pain in her shattered wrist began to dull into a heavy, cold numbness. "Mr. Blackwell... please. Senator Caldwell is running for re-election. If you do something—"

"Senator Caldwell will be giving a speech in the main parlor in twenty minutes," Damon interrupted, his voice dropping into that terrifying velvet register. "He will finish his speech. He will drink his bourbon. And by the time he calls for his son's car at midnight, he will find that his son has vanished from the face of the earth."

Damon turned to Matteo. "Pull them out one by one. I don't want a drop of blood on the Persian carpets in the grand foyer. I don't want a single glass overturned. Use the service corridors. Reyes, once she is stabilized, move her to my private suite on the fourth floor."

"Your suite, sir?" Reyes blinked, surprised. "Not the guest wing?"

"My suite," Damon repeated, brooking no debate.

He leaned down toward Kate. The scent of sandalwood and cold night air clung to his jacket. He took her uninjured left hand in his. His grip was immense, warm, and utterly solid.

"Close your eyes, Kate. When you wake up, your debt will be paid, your mother will be safe, and the men who touched you will cease to exist."

Kate wanted to pull her hand away, wanted to protest that this was madness, that this was murder. But as the narcotic from Reyes's syringe swept through her bloodstream, all she could feel was the terrifying, intoxicating safety of his grasp.