At 2 AM, the Mafia Boss Got a Call… His Plus-Size…

At 2 AM, the Mafia Boss Got a Call… His Plus-Size Secretary Had Been Brutally Attacked…

A 2:00 a.m. hospital phone call was supposed to make me disappear quietly. Instead, it exposed a six-million-dollar secret, a traitor inside the company I had protected for five years, and a criminal family arrogant enough to believe a bruised secretary would be easier to scare than a mob boss. They were wrong about me. They were wrong about Adrien Cross. And by the time the security footage, frozen bank accounts, hidden contracts, police reports, and one very nervous lawyer came together, the men who dragged me from my car weren’t worried about whether I would return to work. They were wondering which one of them would fall first.

PART 1 — They beat me bloody, then told me to deliver a message

“Tell your boss his books are closed.”

That was the last thing the man said before he slammed my face against the hood of my car.

Then he smiled.

Like hurting me was funny.

Like I was nothing.

Twenty-three minutes later, I was sitting under fluorescent lights at St. Jude’s Memorial in Chicago while a resident stitched my temple and two cops asked me the same useless questions for the fourth time.

“Did they take your purse?”

“No.”

“Your phone?”

“They smashed it.”

“Jewelry?”

“No.”

Officer Riley frowned at his little notebook.

“So this wasn’t a robbery?”

I stared at him with one eye swelling shut.

“I’ve been saying that for twenty minutes.”

The ER smelled like antiseptic, burnt coffee, and somebody’s cold cheeseburger.

A toddler was crying behind the next curtain.

Somewhere down the hall, a machine kept beeping every three seconds.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

It was driving me insane.

Riley sighed.

“Ms. Miller, people get carjacked every night.”

“They didn’t take my car.”

That finally made him stop writing.

“They boxed me in with a black SUV. Broke the driver’s window. Pulled me out. Hit me. Then told me to give my boss a message.”

His partner looked up.

“What message?”

I swallowed.

My ribs screamed.

“His books are closed.”

The officers exchanged a look.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

That bothered me more.

“Who exactly is your boss?”

I should’ve lied.

I probably would have.

Then the curtain opened.

Adrien Cross walked in.

The entire room changed.

That’s the only way I can explain it.

Adrien wasn’t shouting.

He wasn’t waving a gun.

He didn’t have six bodyguards behind him.

He wore black slacks, a black button-down, and a dark wool coat wet from the freezing rain outside.

His hair was damp.

His jaw was tight.

His eyes landed on me.

And stopped.

For five years, I’d worked for that man.

Five years of calendars, contracts, board meetings, IRS notices, warehouse acquisitions, payroll disputes, expensive dinners I scheduled but never attended, and envelopes I learned not to ask questions about.

I knew every version of Adrien Cross.

Annoyed Adrien.

Amused Adrien.

Boardroom Adrien.

The Adrien who could make a banker reverse a decision with one phone call.

The Adrien who could sit through a three-hour audit without blinking.

I had never seen the man who looked at my bruised face that night.

He looked terrifyingly calm.

“Mr. Cross,” I said.

My voice cracked.

I hated that.

“You didn’t have to come.”

He didn’t answer.

He walked straight toward me.

His gaze traveled over the sling on my left arm.

The torn blouse.

The dried blood near my collar.

The swelling along my cheek.

His nostrils flared once.

That was it.

But I knew him.

That tiny movement meant somebody was having a very bad night.

Officer Riley stepped forward.

“Sir, we’re in the middle of taking a statement.”

Adrien looked at him.

“Then you’re finished.”

Riley gave a little laugh.

Wrong move.

“Excuse me?”

“She has a concussion, bruised ribs, and nine stitches.”

“Seven,” the resident corrected softly.

Adrien glanced at him.

The doctor immediately looked back at his tray.

Adrien returned his attention to Riley.

“Seven stitches.”

“This is police business.”

“No. This is a traumatized woman you’ve been interrogating while she’s half-medicated.”

“We need information.”

“You have information.”

Riley’s jaw tightened.

“And you are?”

Adrien finally looked at me.

Then back at him.

“The boss.”

Silence.

There it was.

Officer Riley’s face changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

He knew the name.

Everybody in certain parts of Chicago knew the name.

Cross Development owned office towers, warehouses, parking garages, apartment buildings, a trucking company, three restaurants, and enough commercial property to make Adrien respectable on paper.

Paper was generous.

I handled paper.

Which meant I knew exactly where respectability ended.

Adrien stepped beside my bed.

“You’re coming with me.”

“I can take a cab.”

“No.”

“Adrien—”

Both cops looked at me.

I almost never used his first name.

Neither did most people who valued breathing comfortably.

He crouched slightly so we were eye level.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

I stood.

My knees immediately folded.

So much for dignity.

Adrien caught me before I hit the floor.

His arm went around my waist.

Solid.

Warm.

Careful.

That almost broke me.

Not the pain.

Not the attack.

The care.

I had been alone when they smashed the glass.

Alone when they dragged me into the street.

Alone when one of them called me a “fat office bitch” and laughed because I tried kicking him.

Alone when I crawled back toward my car after they left.

I had stayed angry because anger was useful.

Kindness was more dangerous.

“I’ve got you,” Adrien said quietly.

Four words.

That was all.

I looked away before my face betrayed me.

Outside, Chicago was wet and black and miserable.

Police sirens sounded somewhere beyond Michigan Avenue.

Adrien gave me his coat.

I protested.

He ignored me.

Typical.

His Audi was still parked illegally in the emergency lane.

The engine was running.

“You left your car here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re getting ticketed.”

“I’ll survive.”

Despite everything, I almost laughed.

Almost.