I LAID MY FEVERISH DAUGHTER ON A BRAIN-DEAD MAFIA BOSS'S CHEST TO QUIET HER - THEN HE OPENED HIS EYES AND ASKED FOR HER

Victor’s eyes bulged as he clawed at Roman’s hand. The two bodyguards behind him reached into their jackets, their eyes darting wildly toward the hallway security cameras.

“Stand down!” a thunderous voice barked from the doorway.

Gideon—Roman’s personal chief of security, a six-foot-four wall of muscle with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow—marched into the room. Behind him stood six heavily armed men wearing tactical vests marked with private security seals.

Gideon took in the scene in half a second: Roman sitting up in bed, Victor being throttled, Brenda whimpering in the corner, and me trembling beside the biohazard bin with tears streaming down my face.

“Boss,” Gideon said, dropping to one knee beside the bed, his voice thick with unshakeable loyalty. “You’re back.”

Roman released Victor’s throat. Victor stumbled back, coughing violently, massaging his bruised windpipe while his eyes burned with pure, toxic hatred.

“Gideon,” Roman rasped, resting his hand back over Lily’s sleeping frame. “Lock down this floor. No doctors. No nurses. Only staff I personally clear.”

“Consider it done,” Gideon said, standing up and motioning to his tactical team. “Clear the corridor. Shut down the elevators to Floor 4. Anyone without level-one clearance gets detained.”

“Roman, be reasonable!” Victor choked out, trying to smooth his silk tie with trembling hands. “You’ve been in a coma for twenty-one days! You suffer from hypoxia! You don't know what you’re saying! This cleaner and her child are a biohazard—”

“This cleaner,” Roman interrupted, turning his dark, piercing gaze onto me, “is the reason I am breathing.”

The room went dead silent.

I swallowed hard, pulling off my rubber gloves with trembling fingers. “Mr. Vale... I’m sorry. I didn't mean to touch you. Lily was so sick... her fever was 103... I had no money for the ER... I just needed a warm place for her to sleep for an hour while I finished my floor shift—”

“I know,” Roman said softly.

The harsh, terrifying edge in his voice vanished completely as he looked at me.

“I heard you, Elena,” he murmured.

My breath hitched in my throat. He knew my name.

“For three weeks,” Roman continued, his deep voice filling the quiet room, “everyone who entered this room talked about my money, my empire, my funeral. They talked about how to kill me without leaving a mark on the monitors.”

He looked down at Lily, who let out a soft, contented sigh against his chest, her fever already breaking beneath the warmth of his body.

“You were the only one who spoke to me like a human being,” Roman said, his grey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my chest ache. “You told me about your daughter’s cough. You told me about your rent. You told me you were scared.”

He raised his free hand, extending a thick, calloused finger toward me.

“Come here, Elena.”

I hesitated for a second, looking at Victor’s murderous glare, looking at the tactical guards surrounding the room, and finally looking at the broken, dangerous billionaire lying in that hospital bed.

I took three steps forward, stopping right beside the bed.

Roman reached out and grabbed my hand. His skin was warm now, rough and strong, wrapping around my cold, work-worn fingers.

“Gideon,” Roman commanded, his eyes never leaving my face. “Call my private attorneys. Have them draft an emergency personal protection contract and a legal guardianship rider.”

“On whose authority, Roman?” Victor demanded, stepping forward again. “The syndicate board won't accept directives from a man who just woke up from a brain trauma!”

Roman slowly turned his head to look at his second-in-command.

“I own eighty percent of the syndicate board, Victor,” Roman said smoothly. “And as of three minutes ago, Elena Miller is my private executive aide, with full access to my medical wing and legal protection detail.”