My Drunk Mafia Boss Collapsed at My Door and Woke Up Claiming I Was the Only Thing He Would Never Let Go

Part 2: The question was quieter than I expected.

“Because blood stains laminate.”

“That is a lie.”

“Because I am not a murderer.”

“Everyone is capable of murder under the correct circumstances.”

He pushed himself upright, swaying as his bare feet touched the floor. Even wounded and pale, he filled my tiny apartment with a crushing sense of authority.

He took one step toward me.

I held my ground.

Roman stopped close enough for me to smell cedar beneath the whiskey and blood.

“You saved me because you could not watch a human being die,” he said. “That is a dangerous weakness.”

“I am not part of your world.”

“You are now.”

“No.”

“I came here because you were the closest person I knew who would not immediately sell me to my enemies.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you refused to water down a drink when one of my managers ordered you to cheat a customer. I know you returned a wallet containing twelve hundred dollars. I know you give the homeless veteran outside the bar coffee when you think no one is watching.”

His voice dropped.

“I knew what kind of woman lived behind this door.”

The knowledge should have frightened me.

Instead, something about it made my chest ache.

“I will not tell anyone you were here,” I said. “You can leave.”

“I cannot.”

His fingers brushed my jaw.

I recoiled, and his hand stopped.

Roman lowered it.

“The men who attacked me know I was in this neighborhood. By noon, they will search every building between the bar and the freeway. They will find the blood in your hallway.”

My eyes moved toward the crimson smear beneath the door.

“They do not know I helped you.”

“They will assume it.”

“That is not my problem.”

“It became your problem when you opened the door.”

He reached into his ruined jacket, removed a phone, and sent a single message.

“Pack a bag.”

“I am not going anywhere with you.”

“You can stay here and explain the blood to the men carrying gasoline, pliers, and photographs of my bodyguards.”

I stared at him.

He did not appear to be exaggerating.

“Five minutes,” he said.

I packed three pairs of jeans, four shirts, underwear, my toothbrush, and the envelope containing the last photograph of my mother.

Roman was barely standing when we descended the stairs. The elevator had been broken since August, so I wedged my shoulder under his arm and helped him down four floors.

A matte-black SUV waited in the alley.