I Accidentally Called the Mafia Boss “Honey” in Front of 30 Employees—Then He Summoned Me to His Private Office

The black Maybach cut through the rain-slicked streets of lower Manhattan at 1:30 a.m. The steady rhythm of the wipers did nothing to break the heavy, charged silence filling the passenger compartment.

Paige leaned her head against the leather headrest, the emerald gown rustling softly with every turn of the vehicle. Gabriel sat beside her, his tie undone, the collar of his shirt slightly open. He hadn't let go of her hand since they left the Plaza; his fingers remained laced through hers, warm, calloused, and utterly secure.

Suddenly, the Maybach jerked violently to the left.

The sickening squeal of tires shredded the night. Ahead of them, a heavy gray cargo van blew through a red light at the intersection of Houston and Bowery, deliberately t-boning a city cab to block the roadway.

“Ambush!” Nico shouted from the front passenger seat, pulling a suppressed semi-automatic pistol from his jacket in a single fluid motion. “Driver, reverse! Now!”

Before the driver could throw the transmission into reverse, the rear window of the Maybach shattered in an explosion of tempered safety glass.

The deafening roar of automatic gunfire ripped through the air.

“Get down!” Gabriel roared.

In a fraction of a second, his massive frame completely covered hers. He shoved her down onto the floorboards, shielding her body with his own as high-caliber rounds peppered the armored chassis of the car with the concussive force of sledgehammers.

Paige screamed, shards of glass stinging her bare arms as Gabriel pressed his weight over her. The scent of burning gunpowder, shattered glass, and his cedarwood cologne filled her lungs. Above them, Nico and the driver returned fire, their weapons barking with synchronized, deafening precision.

Gabriel reached beneath his tuxedo jacket, unholstering a matte-black Sig Sauer. He kicked his door open into the street, rolled into the rain-drenched pavement, and fired three double-taps into the darkness.

Through the shattered window, Paige saw muzzle flashes illuminating the rain like strobes. Two men in tactical vests crumpled onto the asphalt. Gabriel moved like a machine—ruthless, lethal, utterly devoid of fear. Within forty-five seconds, the gunfire stopped. The only sounds remaining were the hiss of steam pouring from the Maybach’s punctured radiator and the heavy thud of the rain.

Nico stepped out, kicking a weapon away from a fallen attacker. “Clear! Santoro’s street crew. Reinforcements are two blocks out!”

Gabriel leaned into the car, his face rain-streaked and grim. “Paige. Look at me. Are you hit?”

His hands moved frantically over her arms, her shoulders, her torso, checking for blood with a desperate urgency that shattered his usual icy composure.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Paige stammered, her teeth chattering uncontrollably as shock set in. “I’m okay, Gabriel, I swear—”

Her breath hitched. Along Gabriel’s left forearm, the dark wool of his tuxedo was shredded and soaked in a thick, blossoming stain of crimson blood.

“You’re bleeding,” she cried, reaching for his arm.

“It’s a graze,” he grunted, hauling her up from the floorboards and pulling her out of the vehicle into the rain. A secondary black SUV screeched to a halt beside them, its doors flying open. “Move. We go to the safe house.”

Twenty minutes later, they were inside Gabriel’s private penthouse in Tribeca—a fortified, minimalist fortress with reinforced steel shutters that slammed shut over the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Nico brought a first-aid kit into the master bathroom, set it on the marble counter, and disappeared, closing the heavy door behind him to secure the perimeter.

Gabriel sat on the edge of the large porcelain tub, having stripped off his torn jacket and blood-soaked dress shirt. His torso was a map of old violence—faded scars, tight sinew, and a sprawling black tattoo of an archangel slaying a serpent across his left shoulder blade. On his forearm, a jagged four-inch gash continued to seep dark blood.

“Let me do it,” Paige said, her voice shaking as she picked up the bottle of antiseptic and the suture kit.

Gabriel looked up at her. The emerald gown was splattered with rain and dirt; her hair was falling loose around her shoulders. Yet her hands, though trembling, were steadying with fierce determination.

“Have you ever stitched a gunshot wound, Miss Winslow?” he asked, a faint trace of his dry baritone surfacing through the pain.

“I worked the emergency desk at an urgent care clinic in Cincinnati for two years to pay for college,” she retorted softly, kneeling between his spread knees on the cold tile floor. “Hold still.”

She poured the antiseptic directly over the wound. Gabriel’s jaw clamped shut, a muscle in his cheek jumping violently, but he didn't utter a sound. He simply kept his eyes locked on her face as she worked.

Paige threaded the needle with practiced focus. With delicate, confident fingers, she began pulling the torn edges of his skin together, closing the wound with neat, precise stitches.

“Why did Anthony Santoro hit us tonight?” she asked quietly, her breath brushing his bare knee. “He lost the docks, but this was a suicide run.”

Gabriel reached down with his uninjured hand, gently catching a strand of her damp blonde hair and tucking it behind her ear.

“It wasn't about the docks, Paige,” he said, his voice unusually low, rough with an emotion she had never heard in him before. “It was about Kevin.”

Paige froze, the suture needle poised millimeters above his flesh. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

“What does Kevin have to do with the Santoros?” she whispered.

Gabriel leaned forward, his face inches from hers. The shadows of the bathroom cast his features into sharp relief.

“Kevin didn’t just borrow thirty thousand dollars from Sal Vance,” Gabriel revealed quietly. “He stole an encrypted flash drive from my accounting firm six months ago. Vance was working as an intermediary for Anthony Santoro. Kevin sold them my private financial routing codes to pay off his gambling debts.”

Tears burned the backs of Paige’s eyes. The betrayal hit her with fresh, nauseating force. “Kevin... Kevin was using me? The entire time?”

“He left you behind as a distraction,” Gabriel said, his fingers lingering against the soft curve of her jaw, stroking her cheek with infinite tenderness. “He knew Vance would come after you, keeping my security team focused on the street debt while Santoro decoded the files. Kevin didn't just abandon you, Paige. He served you up on a silver platter to keep himself alive.”

A hot tear spilled down Paige’s cheek.

Before it could fall, Gabriel’s thumb wiped it away. His gaze was fierce, possessive, and dark with a rage that wasn't directed at her, but at the world that had dared to hurt her.

“Kevin is a dead man walking,” Gabriel said, his voice a low, terrifying vow. “No one uses you. Not him. Not Santoro. Not anyone. You belong in my house now, Paige. And I protect what is mine.”

Paige looked into his eyes—the eyes of a killer, a syndicate lord, the most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard—and felt entirely, undeniably safe.