The Mafia Boss’s Debt

PART 2 — HIS FIRST ORDER

At 6:40 a.m., I was washing dried blood from my hands when the hospital administrator called me into his office.

That was never a good sign.

Mr. Harrison stood behind his desk, looking unusually pale.

“Emma, sit down.”

“Am I in trouble?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned his computer screen toward me.

A photograph filled the display.

It was me standing beside Dante’s trauma table.

The picture had been taken through the glass window.

My blood ran cold.

“Who took that?”

“We don’t know.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Apparently, Mr. Moretti’s people have contacted the hospital.”

I stared at him.

“For what?”

“To make sure you’re protected.”

“Protected from whom?”

Before he could answer, his secretary knocked.

“Mr. Harrison, there’s a visitor.”

A second later, Vincent Caruso walked inside.

He wore the same expensive black suit as the night before. His silver hair was perfectly combed, and his expression was unreadable.

“Miss Richardson.”

I stood.

“What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Moretti requested that I deliver a message.”

He placed a black envelope on the desk.

I didn’t touch it.

“Tell him I’m not interested.”

Vincent looked at me.

“You haven’t heard the message.”

“I don’t need to.”

For several seconds, he studied my face.

Then he opened the envelope himself and removed a folded piece of paper.

It contained only three sentences.

Emma Richardson is under my protection.

No one is permitted to threaten, follow, question, or approach her without my permission.

Anyone who ignores this order answers directly to me.

I read it twice.

Then I looked up.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?”

“No.”

“I don’t need protection from your boss.”

Vincent’s voice lowered.

“Miss Richardson, someone attacked him last night. They knew his location, his schedule, and the route he would take. Your name was discovered in the hospital records shortly after he arrived.”

My stomach dropped.

“Why would anyone care about me?”

“Because you treated him.”

I shook my head.

“This is insane.”

Vincent placed a small black business card beside the letter.

“My personal number. Call me if anything unusual happens.”

“I won’t.”

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he turned toward the door.

Before leaving, he stopped.

“One more thing. Mr. Moretti has given another order.”

I looked at him suspiciously.

“What now?”

“He wants you to take three days off.”

I almost laughed.

“Tell him he can give orders to his employees, not me.”

Vincent’s expression barely changed.

“I suspected you’d say that.”

Then he left.

I stood there, staring at the letter.

Three days off.

Protection.

An order.

I had spent the entire night saving a stranger’s life, and somehow I had become part of his world.

At 8:15 a.m., I finally left the hospital.

I was halfway across the parking garage when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered cautiously.

“Hello?”

A familiar deep voice came through.

“Good morning, Emma.”

I froze.

“Dante?”

“I’m disappointed. I expected you to recognize my voice faster.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“To ask whether you’ve eaten.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“That’s none of your business.”

A brief silence followed.

Then he chuckled.

“You really are difficult.”

“And you’re really annoying.”

“Good. That means you’re feeling comfortable enough to insult me.”

I was about to hang up when his voice suddenly became serious.

“Emma, listen to me. Don’t go home alone tonight.”

My smile disappeared.

“Why?”

“Because the men who tried to kill me haven’t finished what they started.”

A chill traveled down my spine.

Then I heard something in the background.

A man’s voice.

“Boss, we found something.”

Dante’s tone changed immediately.

“What?”

A pause.

Then his voice returned, colder than before.

“Emma, stay on the phone.”

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, I heard him give an order.

“Bring him to me. Alive.”

The call ended.

I stood motionless in the parking garage.

A few seconds later, another message appeared on my phone.

It was from an unknown number.

You should have let Dante Moretti die.

And beneath it was a photograph.

A photograph of me entering my apartment building the previous night.

Someone had been watching me.

For how long, I had no idea.

But suddenly, I understood something terrifying.

Dante Moretti wasn’t the only person who knew my name anymore.

And whoever had sent that message knew exactly where I lived.