THE ENVELOPE ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR

Roman’s eyes locked onto mine. The busy restaurant kitchen was dead silent.

David, my former manager, was pressed against the stainless steel prep tables, sweating through his expensive shirt. The three bodyguards stood like statues blocking the only exit.

“The man you saved in that alley,” Roman said, his voice a low rumble that carried effortlessly over the hum of the refrigerators. “Wasn't just the victim of a random mugging. I was betrayed by someone who sat at my dinner table last night.”

He stepped closer to me. The scent of rain and expensive cologne radiated off his suit.

“The person who drove that blade into my ribs knew my exact schedule. They knew my security would be two minutes late. They wanted me dead before I could sign a very important contract today.”

He looked down at the blood soaking my white uniform. My blood. His blood.

“And when you pressed your apron against my chest,” Roman continued, his gaze softening just a fraction, “you didn't just save my life, Megan. You ruined their entire plan.”

David swallowed hard. “Mr. Roman, please. I just thought she was a liability.”

“She is the only reason I am breathing,” Roman snapped, not looking at him.

Roman reached into his jacket. He didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out a thick, unmarked envelope.

He dropped it onto the floor, right on top of the final paycheck David had thrown at my feet minutes earlier.

“Pick it up,” Roman told me softly.

My hands were shaking. I crouched down and picked up the thick envelope. It was heavy.

“Open it.”

I tore the seal. Inside were stacks of crisp, hundred-dollar bills. More money than I made in two years of double shifts.

“That is for your son’s antibiotics,” Roman said. “And his rent. And his future. Because as of right now, you no longer work for David.”

“I don't?” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“No.” Roman finally turned his cold gray eyes toward David. “Because David no longer works for me. Get out of my restaurant. If I ever see you in Chicago again, my men won't be so polite.”

David practically scrambled over his own feet, fleeing through the back delivery door as the bodyguards stepped aside.

The lock clicked shut again.

Roman turned back to me. The adrenaline was fading from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, sharp grimace of pain. He pressed a hand against his ribs. The charcoal suit was spotless, but he was still bleeding underneath.

“I need a favor, Megan,” he rasped, leaning heavily against the steel counter.

“You need a hospital,” I said, my maternal instincts overriding my fear of the mafia boss in front of me.

“I can't go to a hospital. The man who stabbed me is my own brother, Victor. He controls the police payroll.” Roman looked at me, his face turning dangerously pale. “I need a place to hide for twenty-four hours. A place Victor would never look.”

I thought of my tiny, cramped apartment. The broken heater. My sick five-year-old son waiting for me with his babysitter.

“You want to come home with me,” I realized.

“Only if you invite me,” he whispered, before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto the kitchen floor.

I dropped the money and fell to my knees beside him.

I yelled for his guards to help me lift him. As we dragged Roman's heavy frame toward the back door, his suit jacket shifted.

And a heavy, silver pocket watch slipped out of his pocket, landing on the floor tiles.

I recognized the intricate engraving on the lid instantly. I had spent five years staring at a photograph of that exact watch.