She Helped the Injured Mafia Boss Without Asking

S leaned closer, glancing nervously toward the front window of his small shop.

“You don’t get it, Clara. They didn’t hit some soldiers. They hit Victor Kaine. Word is they tore him up bad. Nobody knows whether he’s alive or dead.”

Clara felt a slow, uncomfortable thud in her chest.

Victor Kaine.

The ruthless head of the Kaine Syndicate, a man who controlled the docks, the politicians, and every illicit transaction in the Narrows.

“The whole city is locked down,” S continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Kaine’s boys are tearing apart every clinic, hospital, and back-alley butcher in the tri-state area looking for him. If he’s dead, God help us all.”

Clara stared at the carton of milk in her hand.

Her mind flashed back to the giant of a man who had bled all over her cheap linoleum floor at three in the morning.

The expensive charcoal coat.

The superficial but incredibly deep laceration that looked like it was made by a machete.

The flat, cold, unforgiving eyes.

And the heavy, platinum Patek Philippe watch currently buried beneath a pile of takeout menus in her silverware drawer.

She hadn't just treated a random thug.

She had stitched up Victor Kaine.

“I have to go,” Clara said abruptly, tossing the crumpled five-dollar bill onto the counter.

She didn't wait for her change.

She sprinted out of the bodega, clutching her canvas jacket against the freezing wind.

She needed to get back to her apartment.

If Victor Kaine was the man in her kitchen, she was in horrific danger.

If he died from an infection, his syndicate would assume she killed him.

If his enemies found out she saved his life, the Colombians would burn her apartment building to the ground with her inside it.

She had broken the golden rule of the Narrows: remain invisible.

Clara turned onto her street, her boots splashing through the muddy puddles.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The street was entirely blocked off by a fleet of black, armored SUVs.

Dozens of men wearing dark suits and long coats were swarming the block. They carried assault rifles completely in the open, unbothered by the fact that it was the middle of the day.

The neighbors were peering through their blinds in absolute terror.

Standing on Clara’s small, overgrown front lawn was a man giving orders.

He was tall, lean, and wore a custom-tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the slums.

It was Elias Vance, Victor Kaine’s notorious right-hand man and the chief enforcer of the syndicate.

Clara shrank back into the shadows of the alleyway, her heart hammering violently against her ribs.