The Mafia Boss Saw His Bodyguard’s Hands on His Secretary and Asked One Question That Changed Everything

By noon, Damon had completely dismantled any illusion of my normal routine.

My things had been moved from Murray Hill to the Upper East Side brownstone under heavy guard. Damon didn't even allow me to return to my own desk. Instead, he had his IT staff set up a secure workstation inside his private executive office, placing my desk directly opposite his.

""You can do all your work from here,"" Damon said without looking up from his tablet. ""Marcus has established a triple perimeter around this building. You don't leave this floor without me.""

""This is a prison,"" I snapped, typing furiously on my keyboard to vent my frustration.

""It's a fortress,"" he countered smoothly. ""There is a difference. In a prison, you don't get catered lunch from Le Bernardin.""

I glared at the silver cloche sitting untouched on the coffee table. ""You're infuriating.""

""So I've been told.""

Despite my anger, working alongside him in such close proximity was pure torture. Every time he spoke on the phone, his commanding, gravelly voice sent shivers down my spine. Every time he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms and the dark ink of a faded tattoo disappearing beneath his cuffs, my focus completely disintegrated.

Around four in the afternoon, Damon's secure line rang. He answered it, listened for less than ten seconds, and his entire posture shifted from corporate titan to ruthless commander.

""When?"" Damon asked.

A pause.

""Burn the warehouse. Leave no witnesses. I'll handle Sal personally.""

He hung up the phone.

The air in the room grew heavy and cold. I stopped typing, staring at him with wide eyes. ""Damon... what happened?""

He walked over to my desk, placing both hands on the edge of the wood, leaning down until our faces were barely inches apart. The scent of danger around him was intoxicating.

""Caldera's men tried to intercept one of my cargo vessels off the coast of Long Island twenty minutes ago,"" he said, completely unapologetic. ""They failed. But Sal is getting desperate. He knows I'm closing his supply lines.""

""And if he comes here?"" I whispered.

Damon reached out, his thumb gently tracing the curve of my lower lip. The gentleness of the touch was in stunning contrast to the violent reality crashing down around us.

""He won't make it past the lobby,"" Damon promised softly. ""Nobody touches what belongs to me, Elena. Not a bodyguard. Not a rival boss. Nobody.""