The Dying Mafia Boss Fired Every Nurse—Until a Poor Maid’s Deaf Daughter Entered His Forbidden Room and Heard the Heart No One Else Could Reach The first rule at Grayhaven House was simple. Never open Damian Volkov’s door.

The master suite was dark when Mara slipped inside.

The storm outside had intensified, lashing sheets of freezing rain against the tall, reinforced windows of the east wing. A low rumble of thunder vibrated through the stone foundations of Grayhaven House.

"Damian?" Mara whispered, closing the door behind her.

"Here," a low voice answered from the shadows near the hearth.

Damian was sitting in the high-backed leather armchair. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt was open at the collar, and a heavy tactical holster was strapped across his chest. In his hand, he held a sleek, suppressed semi-automatic pistol, checking the magazine with clinical precision.

Mara hurried across the rug, pulling the tablet from her apron. "Julian Vance was at my door ten minutes ago. He knows I've been spending time in this suite. And he warned me away from the west wing archives."

Damian looked up, his slate-gray eyes flashing in the firelight. "Because that's where the master digital keys to the harbor terminals are housed. Julian and Marcus are planning to execute the final transfer tonight while the storm knocks out our primary satellite uplink."

"They're selling you out completely," Mara said, stepping closer. "The poison was just a way to paralyze you long enough to push the corporate merger through probate court while you were incapacitated."

Damian stood up, his movements stiff but decisive. He walked over to the mahogany desk, unlocked a hidden floor safe, and pulled out a heavy steel flash drive.

"This drive contains the unredacted financial trail of every syndicate bank account from Chicago to Palermo," Damian said, his voice dropping into a fierce, absolute growl. "If this gets uploaded to the federal Organized Crime Strike Force, the entire council goes down for life. That's why they want me dead."

Before Mara could answer, the master suite’s heavy security phone chimed softly—a silent red alert flashing on the desk console.

Damian glanced at the screen. "The perimeter sensors on the north gate just tripped. They aren't waiting for Monday. They're coming now."

Suddenly, the overhead lights in the east wing flickered twice and died. The entire suite plunged into absolute darkness, illuminated only by the dying embers of the hearth and the pale flashes of lightning outside.

"They've cut the main power grid," Damian said, raising his pistol. He stepped in front of Mara, shielding her body with his own. "Stay behind me."