The Mafia Boss Went to Silence His Missing Assistant Before the Wedding—But Found Her Bleeding for the Secret That Saved His Life
Part 2
The ride to Gabriel’s estate was silent except for the rain and Norah’s shallow breathing. Every time the SUV turned hard, her body shifted against him, and every time it happened, Gabriel tightened his arm around her as if he could physically hold her soul inside her body by force alone.
Liam saw them in the rearview mirror and went pale. He had seen Gabriel walk out of warehouses with blood on his cuffs and no expression at all. He had never seen him cradle anyone like that.
When the iron gates opened, Gabriel did not wait for the vehicle to fully stop. He kicked the door open and carried Norah through the marble foyer, leaving muddy prints across the floor Mrs. Vella’s staff polished twice a day. He did not care. The mansion’s clean lemon scent made him sick now. All its warmth, all its beauty, all its expensive silence felt obscene beside the memory of Norah freezing on linoleum.
“Get Victor,” Gabriel ordered. “Now.”
Victor arrived in the east-wing guest room with a medical bag and a face that lost all color when he saw her.
“Is that Ms. Quinn?”
“Fix her.”
That was all Gabriel could say without revealing the panic clawing at his ribs.
Victor worked fast. He cut away the ruined bandage and muttered about fever, dehydration, infection, exhaustion. The knife wound was worse than Gabriel’s quick stitching had allowed him to admit. Whoever had attacked her had twisted the blade, trying to make sure she would not run, would not fight, would not reach Gabriel before the rehearsal dinner.
“She needs a hospital,” Victor said.
“She needs to stay alive,” Gabriel replied. “Do whatever that requires.”
Victor looked up sharply. “When was the last time she ate?”
Gabriel had no answer.
The question struck harder than an accusation. He thought of the catered lunches delivered to his office, the black coffee Norah always brought him, the neat way she would set down his plate and disappear before anyone thought to ask whether she wanted one too. He had assumed money solved hunger. He had assumed competence meant invulnerability.
He had built an empire on reading men’s weaknesses.
He had failed to read hers.
Liam appeared in the doorway holding Norah’s laptop, hard drives, and folders from the apartment. “Boss, phones are melting down. Sloan’s father landed at the airstrip. Carlo wants to know why security canceled the rehearsal dinner. He’s asking for a face-to-face.”
At the mention of his uncle, Norah stirred weakly on the bed. Her eyes did not open, but her lips moved.
“Don’t meet him blind,” she breathed.
Gabriel stepped closer. “Nora?”
Her lashes fluttered. “Drives. Locked.”
Then she slipped under again.
Gabriel stared at the woman on the bed, at the IV line in her arm, at the bruises on her face, and his guilt hardened into something colder.
By three in the morning, the mansion was quiet, but Gabriel was still awake in his study with Norah’s encrypted hard drives stacked like bricks beside his gun. He had tried every bypass code his technicians used. Nothing worked.
Of course nothing worked.
Norah had built the lock.
A soft scraping sound came from the hall.
Gabriel rose, hand going to his weapon, and opened the study door.
Norah stood at the far end of the corridor in one of his oversized black shirts, an IV pole gripped in one hand, her injured leg locked in a brace. Her face was pale, bruised, feverish—and her eyes were violently awake.
“Get back in bed,” Gabriel said.
She took one dragging step forward. “You can’t read the drives.”
“Nora.”
“You’re flying blind, Gabriel.” Her voice shook, but the words did not. “Carlo didn’t just sell the caterer. He sold your armory.”
Gabriel went still.
Norah’s grip whitened around the IV pole. “Pier 4. Warehouse Seven. Tonight.”
He crossed the distance in five strides as she swayed. His hands caught her waist before she could fall, pulling her against him.
For four years, they had never touched.
Now her fever burned through the thin cotton of his shirt, and her hands clutched his forearms with desperate strength.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
“You’re bleeding through the dressing.”
“And you’re about to get your men killed.”
He looked down at her. Beneath the bruises, beneath the exhaustion, he saw something he had never allowed himself to see before. Not just loyalty. Fear. Not fear of death. Fear of being useless.
“One hour,” he said. “You unlock the drives, show me what Carlo sold, and then you go back to bed.”
Norah’s mouth curved faintly. “Deal.”
In the study, Gabriel propped her injured leg on a stool and set the laptop in front of her. Her fingers shook over the keys, but her mind was mercilessly clear. Layers of encryption fell away beneath her hands until a spreadsheet filled the screen.
Transfers. Routing numbers. Attached blueprints.
Norah clicked one open.
The Romano warehouse appeared, marked with red Xs across blind spots, breaker boxes, gate codes, vault doors.
Gabriel leaned over her shoulder, his blood turning cold.
“The hit is at four,” Norah whispered. “Carlo is already there waiting for the Kensington trucks.”
The clock on the desk read 3:15 a.m.
Gabriel straightened slowly.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he opened the drawer, removed a compact pistol, checked the magazine, and set it beside Norah’s trembling hand.
“I don’t know how to shoot,” she said.
“If anyone opens that door and it isn’t me,” he replied, “pull the trigger until it clicks empty.”
Her eyes lifted to his.
“Don’t make me plan your funeral,” she whispered.
May you like
Gabriel touched his knuckles to her unbruised cheek. “I canceled the wedding, Norah. I’m not putting you through catering a funeral too.”
Then he walked out, and she locked the door behind him.
