Chapter 2 - The Price of Kindness
Maya couldn’t breathe. Five times her salary? Room and board inside this fortress? That kind of money meant paying off Aaron’s predatory loans in months rather than decades. It meant freedom.
Yet every instinct she had inherited from her mother screamed at her to run.
“I can’t accept that, Mr. DeLuca,” Maya stated, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the violent pounding in her chest.
Roman’s eyes narrowed, a flash of surprise rippling through his icy composure. Beside her, Elena gasped in sheer disbelief. Nobody refused Roman DeLuca. When the head of the DeLuca syndicate offered a deal, people either thanked him on their knees or disappeared into Lake Michigan.
“You’re turning down a promotion?” Roman asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm register. “Most people in your tax bracket would beg for an opportunity like this.”
“I’m not most people,” Maya said, lifting her chin. “I came here to scrub floors, wash linens, and earn an honest living. I don’t take charity, and I certainly don’t take debts I haven’t earned. Giving me five times my wage for sitting in a room and talking is charity.”
“It’s not charity,” Roman stepped closer, his imposing silhouette blotting out the afternoon light. He carried the faint scent of expensive cologne, tobacco, and cold iron. “For three years, my sister has refused every doctor, every therapist, and every member of our family. She stopped speaking to me. She stopped eating without an argument. Yesterday, you walked in here with a filthy mop and brought her back to life in five minutes.”
He leaned down slightly, bringing his face level with hers. “That laughter is worth more to me than this entire estate. You aren't being handed charity, Maya Turner. You are being paid for a miracle.”
Elena turned her head away, her cheeks burning red, but she didn’t deny his words.
Maya felt the weight of his gaze. She saw no mockery in Roman’s dark eyes, only a fierce, terrifying protectiveness. Beneath the brutal reputation of a ruthless mob boss lay a desperate brother willing to burn the city down just to save the last piece of his family.
“What about the medical team?” Maya whispered. “Why do you care about my leg?”
“Because a companion who collapses from pain is useless to my sister,” Roman answered flatly, straightening his posture. “Dr. Mercer will examine your joint this evening. If surgery or therapy is required, it will be deducted from your bonus—if that makes your pride feel better.”
Maya looked at Elena, whose eyes held a strange, vulnerable plea. For the first time since her mother died, Maya felt wanted. Not as a beast of burden, not as a scapegoat for an abusive husband’s debts, but as a person.
“Under one condition, Mr. DeLuca,” Maya said bravely.
Behind Roman, Marco, his chief bodyguard, choked on his own breath in horror. No one put conditions on the Don.
Roman merely tilted his head, amused. “Speak.”
“I keep my uniform. I clean Miss Elena’s room myself. And if I feel like dancing with a mop, you don’t interrupt.”
A ghost of a smirk touched Roman’s sculpted lips—a rare, startling crack in his stone mask. “Deal. Move your belongings from your apartment tonight. Marco will escort you.”
“No,” Maya said instantly, thinking of the shoebox hidden under her bed filled with thousands of anonymous dollars she had never dared spend. “I prefer to move my things alone. I’ll take the evening bus and return in the morning.”
Roman studied her for three agonizing seconds. He knew she was hiding something, but he gave a curt nod. “Be back by eight tomorrow. If you're late, Marco will hunt you down himself.”
Three hours later, Maya unlocked the door to her decaying studio apartment on the West Side. The hallway smelled of stale cabbage and damp mold. She dragged a battered duffel bag from the closet and began packing her meager clothes.
When she pulled the shoebox out from under her bed, her hands shook. Inside were five plain white envelopes, each stuffed with crisp, unmarked bills—totaling twenty-four hundred dollars. And sitting on top was the envelope she had found slipped under her door the previous night.
Maya’s throat tightened. Someone had been watching her for months. Someone knew her schedule, knew she was drowning, and had been slipping cash into her home.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
Maya froze. The wood floor creaked right outside her door. She held her breath, clutching the duffel bag against her chest.
A shadow crossed beneath the door frame. Then came three slow, rhythmic knocks.
“Maya?” a familiar, oily voice whispered through the keyhole. “Open up, sweetheart. I know you’re working for the DeLucas now. Let’s talk about our little debt.”
May you like
The blood drained from Maya’s face.
It was Aaron. Her ex-husband had found her.
