The Mafia Boss Thought She Was Just a Bookish Secretary—Until She Opened the Clan’s Most Secure Safe

Damian was propped up in the hospital bed, his chest wrapped in thick bandages, an IV line running into his arm. His color had returned, though his face was drawn with the exhaustion of surviving a near-fatal gunshot wound.

When the door opened and Norah walked in, his slate-gray eyes found hers immediately.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Norah walked slowly to the side of the bed, her arms crossed, looking down at him.

"You look terrible," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

"You look breathtaking," Damian replied, his voice gravelly and weak, but his gaze burning with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. "Even with my blood on your dress."

Norah let out a wet, half-strangled laugh, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "You are the most arrogant, infuriating, reckless man I have ever met in my life. Why did you take that bullet, Damian? Why?"

Damian reached out with his uninjured hand, his fingers curling around hers, pulling her gently toward the edge of the mattress.

"Because I would rather die than watch this world hurt you," Damian said softly, every ounce of his usual cold authority stripped away, leaving only raw, undeniable truth. "For eighteen months, Norah, you were the only light in this dark, miserable life. Every day I walked into that office, drowning in blood and betrayal, knowing that outside my door was a woman who was good, brilliant, and pure."

Norah’s breath hitched in her throat. "Damian..."

"I didn't care about the safe," Damian continued, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "I didn't care about the Ross shares. When I saw Vincent raise that gun at you, my only thought was that you had to survive. Even if I didn't."

Tears spilled over Norah’s lashes, running freely down her cheeks. She leaned down, resting her forehead gently against his shoulder, being careful not to touch his bandages.

"You idiot," she whispered into his neck. "You absolute idiot. Who was going to organize your calendar if you died?"

Damian let out a low, breathless laugh that ended in a soft wince of pain. "Nobody could replace you, Norah. Nobody."

He reached up, his fingers sliding into the loose waves of her hair, tilting her face up to meet his. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers—a soft, reverent, desperate kiss that tasted of salt, iron, and a promise carved in blood.

Norah kissed him back, pouring every ounce of fear, relief, and undeniable love she had harbored for eighteen months into the press of their lips.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, the door to the room swung open.

Luca stepped inside, accompanied by two armed guards.

"Boss," Luca said, his eyes flicking between Damian and Norah with a knowing smirk. "Sorry to interrupt. But the package arrived."

Damian frowned, glancing at Norah. "What package?"