Chapter 1 - The Sputtering Honda and the Iron Gates
The 1998 Honda Civic sputtered and died exactly three feet before the sprawling wrought-iron gates of the Gallagher estate.
Sadi slammed her forehead against the steering wheel.
The horn answered with a pathetic, dying honk that echoed across the manicured landscape.
"Perfect," she muttered.
She grabbed her oversized tote bag, currently containing three crumpled eviction notices, a half-eaten bagel, and her vaguely legitimate nursing certificate, then kicked open the car door.
The California humidity hit her immediately.
So did the cold, assessing stares of the two men standing on the opposite side of the gate.
They wore tailored suits that probably cost more than her entire college debt. They also wore bulky shoulder holsters, which sort of ruined the high-fashion aesthetic.
"I’m here for the interview," Sadi called out, hiking the bag higher on her shoulder. "The caregiver gig. Unless you guys are the caregivers, in which case I’ll just walk into traffic now."
The man on the left did not smile. He didn’t even twitch.
He unclipped a radio from his belt, murmured something into it, and the heavy gates clicked open with a mechanical hiss.
Sadi walked up the mile-long driveway, her sneakers crunching against gravel that had probably been imported from a private quarry in Europe.
The estate was a fortress disguised as a mansion. High stone walls enclosed the property. Cameras swiveled along the rooflines with quiet motorized hums. Thick oak doors looked as though they belonged on a medieval cathedral, designed to keep out angry rival syndicates and Jehovah’s Witnesses alike.
Inside the foyer, she was patted down by a man named Frankie whose nose had been broken at least three times.
He confiscated her pepper spray, her key ring, and a rogue bobby pin.
"Down the hall. Last door. Don’t touch anything."
The house felt like a museum: cold, dark, and almost completely devoid of life. It smelled of lemon polish and stale cigar smoke.
Sadi’s boot squeaked against the polished marble floor as she crossed the hallway.
She reached the heavy double doors at the end.
She did not knock.
She was already twenty minutes late, her scrubs had a coffee stain on the collar, and she assumed she had probably disqualified herself before reaching the room anyway.
She pushed down the handle and walked inside.
The room was vast, dominated by a massive mahogany desk.
The man she had come to meet was not sitting behind it.
He was beside the window.
Desmond Gallagher sat in a state-of-the-art motorized wheelchair, staring across the rolling lawns toward the Pacific.
Even seated, he was imposing. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a dark, unbuttoned dress shirt. His jaw was sharp beneath a heavy shadow of stubble. A heavy wool blanket had been arranged meticulously over his legs.
He did not turn.
"I explicitly said I wanted the agency’s senior representative."
His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the quiet room, carrying the weight of a man accustomed to absolute obedience.
"You breathe too loud, and your shoes squeak."
"It’s the rubber soles. OSHA compliance."
Sadi dropped her tote bag onto a leather armchair. It landed with an inelegant thud.
Desmond finally turned the chair. Its motor whined softly.
His face was striking but hard, with deep lines bracketing his mouth. Pale, icy blue eyes swept over her with brutal efficiency.
He noticed the coffee stain.
The messy bun.
He also noticed that she was trembling slightly, although he could not tell whether the cause was fear or a caffeine crash.
"You’re not a senior nurse."
"I have my LPN, and I have references. Well, one reference, but she really likes me." Sadi crossed her arms. "Look, Mr. Gallagher, you fired the last four nurses the agency sent. Word is you’re impossible to work for. You throw things. You refuse physical therapy. You insulted a woman so badly she cried in the driveway."
"She treated me like a toddler," Desmond said without apology. "She spoke to me in a pitch usually reserved for golden retrievers. I don't need a mother."
"Good, because I barely kept a succulent alive last week."
Desmond’s eyes narrowed.
He rolled his chair forward.
The movement was smooth, but Sadi noticed his white-knuckled grip on the joystick and the tension running through his forearms.
He hated the machine.
He hated depending on it.
The anger radiated from him like heat from a foundry.
"Why are you here?" he asked softly.
It was the kind of softness that sounded as though it usually preceded violence.
"I need the money."
Honesty was the only card Sadi had left.
"You pay triple the going rate. I have rent due and a car that just died at your gate. And I don’t care if you’re an irritable bastard. I can lift you. I can catheterize you. I can monitor your vitals. And I won't use a baby voice. In exchange, you sign my paycheck."
Desmond stared at her.
The silence stretched until the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a sledgehammer.
He reached toward a side table and picked up a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquor.
His hand trembled slightly, a residual nerve problem from the car bomb that had taken his legs.
The glass slipped.
It struck the hardwood and shattered into dozens of fragments.
Whiskey spread across the polished oak.
Sadi did not flinch.
She looked at the broken glass, then at him.
"You missed the rug."
Desmond’s jaw tightened.
"Clean it up."
It was a test. A blatant, degrading power play to see if she would bow or break.
Sadi looked at the shards.
Then she looked at the mob boss sitting inside a machine he despised.
Her rubber soles squeaked deliberately as she crossed the room. She stepped directly over the broken glass and stopped in front of his chair.
Then she leaned down, grabbed the heavy wool blanket covering his legs, and yanked it away.
Desmond reacted instinctively.
His hand shot out and closed around her wrist with crushing force.
"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"
Sadi did not struggle. She looked down at his legs.
They were thin. Muscle atrophy had already begun during the six months since the bombing. They were still limbs, but they were useless to him.
"You’re hiding under a blanket in a seventy-degree room," Sadi said quietly. "If I’m working for you, I need to see what I’m working with. You have pressure sores starting on your left calf. Your circulation is poor. And if you squeeze my wrist any harder, I won't be able to push your chair."
He released her.
Desmond stared at her with a mixture of shock and sheer rage.
No one touched him.
No one spoke about the reality of his body that bluntly. His men looked away from it. His previous nurses had hovered around him, patting the blanket and behaving as though pretending might make him something other than a man paralyzed from the waist down.
"You’re hired," Desmond said flatly. "Frankie will show you your room. Clean up the glass before you go."
"I’m a nurse, Mr. Gallagher. Not a maid." Sadi turned toward the door. "Tell Frankie to bring a broom."
She shut the heavy doors behind her.
Once she was safely in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and released a shaky breath.
May you like
She had the job.
Now she only had to survive it.
