THE BILLIONAIRE MAFIA KING FELL TO HIS KNEES: When His Ordinary Secretary Took The Assassin's Bullet, He Burned The Entire Underworld For Her

Forty-eight hours after waking, Claire was discharged under the cover of darkness.

She had expected to be taken back to her modest, two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Instead, she woke from a morphine-induced nap to the sound of heavy iron gates groaning open.

Through the tinted window of the armored Maybach, she saw towering wrought-iron fences topped with razor wire, manicured pine forests, and a sprawling stone manor that looked like an ancient European fortress transplanted onto the rocky coast of Long Island.

"This isn't my apartment," Claire said, turning to Vincent, who sat beside her on the leather bench, watching her every micro-movement.

"Your apartment has three locks, no bulletproof glass, and an exterior fire escape," Vincent replied without looking up from his encrypted tablet. "It is a tactical nightmare. You are not returning there."

"Mr. Caruso, I have a cat. I have houseplants. I have a life."

"Dominic has already retrieved your cat. It is currently occupying the east solarium," Vincent said calmly. "Your plants have been moved to the greenhouse. Your lease has been broken, and your deposit returned tenfold. You live here now."

"I am your employee!" Claire's voice rose, though the strain sent a throb of pain through her healing shoulder. "You cannot simply kidnap me because I was injured on the job!"

Vincent finally locked the tablet and turned to face her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and filled with a suffocating gravity.

"The man who hired that shooter is still breathing," Vincent said. "Until his heart stops beating, you do not leave my sight. You will sleep in the master wing. You will eat meals prepared by my personal chef. Every door you open will have an armed guard outside it. You don't get a say in this, Claire. You gave up your right to autonomy the moment you bled out in my arms."

The car stopped before the stone steps of the estate. Before Claire could protest, Vincent had exited his side, circled around, and pulled her passenger door open.

"I can walk," she said stubbornly, placing her sneakers on the gravel.

"You can barely stand," he countered.

Without waiting for her consent, he slid his right arm beneath her knees and his left behind her back, carefully avoiding her bandaged shoulder, and scooped her up against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.

Claire gasped, instinctively gripping his lapels. The heat of his body seemed to penetrate her wool coat. She could smell his signature scent—bergamot, old mahogany, and a faint trace of gunpowder. Her heart hammered against her ribs, completely out of rhythm.

"Put me down," she whispered, her face burning. "The guards are watching."

Ten heavily armed men in black tactical gear stood along the perimeter, eyes trained strictly forward, pretending they were not witnessing the supreme ruler of the Caruso Syndicate carrying a petite brunette like a bridal package up the grand staircase.