99Every Woman Fled the Mafia Boss Before Dawn, but the Poor Maid Fell Asleep in His Arms and Woke the Secret That Could Destroy Him

Noel hesitated, her fingers clutching her faded bag.

"Nothing happened," she lied, forcing a soft, reassuring smile that failed to reach her tired eyes. "Just a long shift."

Ellis stared at her. At nineteen, despite the physical weakness that kept him confined to the rehabilitation center, his mind remained razor-sharp. He noticed the red marks around her wrists from rubber gloves, the slight limp in her step, and the absence of her hotel identification badge.

"They let you go," Ellis said flatly. It was not a question.

Noel swallowed hard, looking down at her worn boots. "It doesn't matter, El. I'll find another shift by tomorrow."

"You worked three years for those people, Noel! You covered double shifts when their staff called out!" Ellis’s voice rose, cracking with furious helplessness. He tried to sit up higher, but the effort drained the color from his cheeks. "It’s my fault. If I wasn't in this place, if my spine didn't need three operations—"

"Stop," Noel commanded gently, leaning over the bed to grab his hands. Her voice was firm, unyielding. "Don't you ever say that. You are going to walk again, Ellis. You are going to finish your engineering degree, and I am going to make sure your bills are paid. That is my job. Do you hear me?"

Ellis closed his eyes, a single tear slipping past his lashes. "We have two weeks before the facility transfers me to a state ward, Noel. They told me yesterday. If the co-pay isn't paid by Friday, they take me off the intensive physical therapy program."

The words felt like a physical blow to Noel's chest. State wards were notorious for minimal care. Patients in Ellis’s condition degraded quickly without daily neurological rehabilitation.

"It won't happen," Noel vowed, her knuckles white as she squeezed his hand. "I'll get the money."

Two hours later, Noel stood outside a small agency in Downtown Brooklyn.

The sign on the frosted glass door read Vanguard Private Placement Services. It was not a standard employment office. There were no carpeted waiting rooms or colorful flyers. Just an old desk, three filing cabinets, and a sharp-eyed woman in her late fifties named Mrs. Gable.

Mrs. Gable looked at Noel’s application, then at the computer screen before her.

"You have a red flag on your regional hotel profile, Ms. Draper," Mrs. Gable said coldly, not looking up. "Unspecified inventory discrepancy at the Ashcroft."

"It was a false accusation," Noel said, her voice steady despite the desperation clawing at her throat. "I’ve never stolen a thing in my life. I need work today, Mrs. Gable. Anything. Night shifts, sanitation, commercial cleaning. My brother is in the hospital."

Mrs. Gable paused, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. She looked up, her gaze scanning Noel’s faded sweater, her cracked hands, and the quiet, fierce dignity in her dark eyes.

"There is one placement," Mrs. Gable said slowly, her tone lowering. "It is not a cleaning job."

Noel leaned forward. "What is it?"

"A night attendant," Mrs. Gable explained. "A private client in Brooklyn Heights. He requires someone to remain present in his suite from midnight until four in the morning."

Noel frowned. "An elderly patient? Medical care?"

"No," Mrs. Gable said flatly. "The client is thirty-four years old. He is physically healthy. The pay is two thousand dollars per night, cash, paid upon departure each morning."

Noel froze. Two thousand dollars a night. That was more than she made in two months at the hotel. In three nights, she could pay Ellis’s co-pay for the entire winter.

"What's the catch?" Noel asked, her suspicion instantly rising. "Why does a healthy thirty-four-year-old man pay two thousand dollars a night for someone to sit in his room?"

Mrs. Gable closed the folder on her desk.

"Because the client is Cassian Marchetti," Mrs. Gable whispered. "And the women who went before you left trembling before three a.m. None of them lasted a single full night. The rules are absolute: You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not touch anything in the apartment. You sit in the chair beside his bed. You do not leave until four in the morning."

Noel felt a chill run down her spine. The name Marchetti was notorious across New York. He was a man associated with shadows, power, and unspoken violence.

"Why does he want someone there?" Noel asked softly.

"That is none of your concern," Mrs. Gable replied coldly. "Do you want the placement, or shall I offer it to someone else?"

Noel thought of Ellis sitting in his hospital bed, watching programming tutorials on a cracked screen. She thought of the state ward.