Mafia Boss Hadn’t Kissed Anyone in Four Years—Then His Shy New Maid Fell Asleep in His Arms

The heavy, metallic thud of the steel shutters sealing the third-floor windows echoed like a gun blast inside the dark, mahogany-lined study. Outside, the howling Illinois rain was instantly reduced to a faint, distant vibration against the reinforced armor plating.

Hazel Brooks stood rooted to the hardwood floor, her heart hammering against her ribs so violently she was certain Damian could hear it. Her hands trembled inside her plain white apron pockets.

For three months, she had been a shadow in this mansion. She cleaned the grand staircases at 5:00 AM, polished the silver in the silent dining halls, and made sure never to be in the same corridor as Damian Romano. The rules were absolute. Do not approach him. Do not look him in the eye. Do not touch him.

Now, the light in the room came only from the green glow of the desk's emergency monitors and the amber embers dying in the massive stone fireplace.

Damian stood beside the heavy leather armchair near his desk, his breathing heavy and uneven. He was six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with sharp, sculpted features and eyes as dark and cold as obsidian. His tailored suit jacket was gone. His white dress shirt was torn open at the left flank, soaked in fresh, crimson blood that dripped steadily onto the vintage Persian rug.

“I said,” Damian repeated, his voice low, gravelly, and laced with dangerous friction, “bring the kit.”

Hazel snapped out of her trance. She rushed behind the massive carved oak desk, her knees practically knocking together. She opened the bottom drawer, finding a heavy, heavy-duty black military trauma case. She pulled it out and carried it toward him, stopping three feet away, remembering the golden rule.

“Set it on the table,” Damian ordered, his dark eyes locked onto her trembling form. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, throwing the blood-stained fabric onto the floor, revealing a broad, muscular chest covered in light silver scars—and a deep, jagged graze along his ribs.

Hazel set the box down and opened it. Inside were rolls of sterile gauze, antiseptic spray, medical staplers, and suture kits. She had worked as a nurse's assistant for a year before her mother fell ill, long before her life spiraled out of control.

“You’re losing a lot of blood,” Hazel whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the HVAC system. “It... it looks like a bullet graze, but it caught an artery branch.”

Damian’s jaw tightened as he sat down heavily in the leather chair, leaning his head back. “Can you clean it, or are you going to faint on my floor?”

Hazel swallowed her fear. The image of Frankie Sullivan’s muscle-bound enforcers coming to her apartment on Friday flashed through her mind. She needed to survive tonight. She needed to survive Damian Romano.

“I won't faint,” she said firmly.

She stepped inside his four-foot personal boundary—a distance no woman had crossed in four long years.

As her small, cool hands sprayed the antiseptic onto his wound, Damian let out a sharp, sharp intake of breath. His hand shot out, catching her wrist with iron strength.

The contact was like live electricity.

For four years, Damian had allowed no physical touch from anyone—no handshakes, no casual brushes, no intimacy. His dark eyes snapped to hers, wild, intense, and suffocatingly close. Hazel froze, her breath catching in her throat as she stared into the dark depths of his gaze.

“Who do you owe money to, girl?” Damian asked softly, his thumb pressing lightly against her fluttering pulse point on her wrist. “When my guard said ‘Sullivan crew,’ you gasped. Why?”

Hazel’s lips parted, her cheeks flushing hot despite her terror. “I... I don't—”

“Do not lie to me in my own sanctuary,” Damian growled, his grip tightening just enough to command absolute obedience. “Frankie Sullivan is a cockroach trying to carve off my border territories. Why does my maid know his name?”

Tears welled in Hazel’s eyes, glistening in the amber light. “My ex-boyfriend... he took out a sixty-thousand-dollar loan shark debt in my name using my forged signature six months ago. He vanished. Frankie Sullivan told me if I don't have the cash by Friday... he’ll sell me to a club in Atlantic City.”

Damian stared at her. He looked at her pale face, her dark, honest brown eyes, the sheer exhaustion etched into the fine lines beneath her lashes. She was working two jobs, sleeping three hours a night, trying to pay off a monster’s debt while dusting his bookshelves.