No One Wanted to Care for the Paralyzed Crime Boss Until the Maid’s Three-Year-Old Daughter Walked Into His Office With a Broken Cookie

By May, Claire and Ellie had become fixtures in the west wing.

Claire had stopped flinching every time Julian spoke. She had learned how he liked his coffee (black, like his mood on rainy days) and that he actually read the massive leather-bound books on his shelves.

But she was also beginning to realize exactly who she was working for.

It happened on a Tuesday. Claire was dusting the hallway outside Julian’s office when the heavy oak doors opened. Three men walked out. They wore expensive, tailored suits, but their eyes were hard, calculating, and violent.

One of them, a tall man with a silver scar through his eyebrow, stopped and looked Claire up and down.

"Well," the man purred, stepping into her space. "Since when does Julian hire scenery?"

Claire backed up, her spine hitting the wall. "Excuse me."

The man reached out, trapping a strand of her hair between his fingers. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Her name is none of your business, Marcus."

The voice cut through the hallway like a physical blade.

Marcus dropped Claire’s hair and turned. Julian sat in his wheelchair in the doorway of his office. He didn't have a gun. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at Marcus with an expression so terrifyingly empty that the air in the hallway seemed to freeze.

"Julian," Marcus chuckled, though it sounded nervous. "Just being friendly with the help."

"She’s not the help," Julian said coldly. "She’s my staff. And if you ever speak to her, look at her, or breathe in her direction again, I will have Dante remove your tongue. Do you understand?"

Marcus’s smile vanished. "You're getting soft in that chair, Julian. The families are talking. They say you're weak."

"Let them talk," Julian replied. "Now get out of my house."

When the men left, Claire slid down the wall, her hands shaking.

Julian wheeled himself closer. He didn't offer a platitude. He didn't apologize.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Claire shook her head, fighting back tears of sheer adrenaline. "Who are those men?"

"Ghosts from a life I used to live," Julian said quietly. He looked at her trembling hands. "You should quit, Claire. It’s not safe for you here. Not anymore."

Claire looked up at him. She thought of her tiny apartment, the past-due bills, and the way Ellie's face lit up every time she ran into Julian’s office.

She stood up, brushing off her apron. "I need this job, Mr. Moretti."

"I can give you money. Enough to leave."

"I don't want your money," Claire said fiercely. "I want to work. And I'm not afraid of men in cheap suits."

Julian stared at her. For the first time in two years, he felt something other than rage or despair. He felt admiration.