Chapter 1 - The Broken Glass
The whiskey glass shattered inches from Narin’s face.
Amber liquor struck the dark wood paneling with a wet spray, and fine crystal shards skittered over the scuffed toes of her worn black shoes.
Across the sprawling, shadow-draped office, Declan Graham stared at her from a motorized wheelchair. He looked ghost-like yet intimidating—pale beneath several days of rough stubble, dark circles ringed under piercing steel-grey eyes, his right hand still raised from the violent momentum of throwing the heavy tumbler.
“Get out.” His voice was a raspy growl, heavy with bitterness.
Narin didn't flinch. She simply looked down at the glittering amber mess on the floor.
Then her eyes moved to the narrow broom closet near the hallway door—the one Mrs. Gibson, the trembling older housekeeper, had pointed out thirty minutes ago before effectively abandoning her with the most feared crime boss in Chicago.
“The cleaning supplies are in there?” Narin asked smoothly.
Declan blinked, caught off guard by her utter lack of fear.
Without waiting for an answer, Narin walked over to the closet, retrieved a stiff broom and a dustpan, and knelt on the hardwood. She began sweeping the glass into neat piles with steady, rhythmic movements.
She couldn't afford to care about his rage. Her checking account had exactly three dollars and forty-two cents remaining. An eviction notice was taped to the door of her freezing, windowless studio apartment across town. The Graham estate offered four thousand dollars after one full week of work.
Narin could not afford dignity that required unemployment.
Behind her, the faint, low hum of the electric wheelchair’s motor whirred.
“What are you doing?” Declan demanded, his tone sharp enough to cut leather.
“My job,” Narin replied without looking up, sweeping the last small shard into the tin pan.
Declan Graham had driven away every caretaker, physical therapist, housemaid, and personal assistant who had crossed the threshold of this estate over the past three years, ever since a sniper’s bullet shattered his spine during an ambush at the docks. Seventy-two hours under his roof was considered a grand achievement by the employment agency. Some left weeping; others simply packed their bags in the middle of the night and fled into the storm.
Narin knew none of them. She only knew rent was due in four days.
She stood up, emptying the glass into a bin. “Bookshelves or mantel next, sir?”
Declan’s cold gaze narrowed into dangerous slits. “Don’t touch my desk.”
That was how her first day began.
By lunchtime, he had deliberately knocked a steaming bowl of homemade tomato soup off his tray onto the Persian rug, calling it lukewarm slop. Narin cleaned it on her hands and knees without uttering a word of complaint, even as her empty stomach cramped painfully while carrying the ruined tray down to the kitchen.
The following afternoon, while polishing the massive brass wall fixtures in the study, Declan’s chief lieutenant, Victor, burst into the room to report escalating tensions with the rival Rossy syndicate concerning a contested shipment at the South Side docks.
Narin kept her head down, polishing the brass until it gleamed. Whatever criminal enterprise financed this sprawling fortress was none of her concern.
“She doesn’t matter,” Declan muttered coldly after Victor cast a suspicious glare in her direction. “She’ll be gone by tomorrow anyway.”
Narin pressed her rag deeper into the metal, polishing harder. Four thousand dollars. She would stay if she had to sleep on the concrete floor.
That night, severe thunder shook the floor-to-ceiling glass windows while Narin quietly organized the leather-bound volumes in Declan’s extensive library.
A sudden, strangled gasp made her freeze.
She turned to see Declan folded forward in his wheelchair, both hands crushing his thighs through his trousers, heavy beads of cold sweat shining along his forehead. His breathing was shallow, jagged, and agonized.
“Leave,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his knuckles turning white.
Narin noticed the silver pill container resting on the corner of his mahogany desk.
“I’ll get your pain medication,” she said softly, stepping toward the desk.
His fist struck the padded armrest of his chair with a heavy thud. “I said leave it alone!”
The fierce fury in his voice failed to hide what sat right beneath it. It was pure, unadulterated humiliation.
Narin picked up the silver case anyway, unscrewed the cap, and shook out two white tablets. She filled a glass with fresh water from the sideboard and walked directly up to his chair.
“I don’t pity you, Mr. Graham,” she said calmly.
His head snapped up, his steel eyes flaring with anger.
“Frankly, you’ve been utterly horrible to work for,” Narin continued, holding her ground. “But if you spend the entire night screaming in pain, I won’t be able to finish dusting these shelves. If I don’t finish, Mrs. Gibson won't sign my timesheet, and I don’t get paid.”
She held out her palm with the two pills. “So take them.”
For the first time since she had arrived, the most feared man in Chicago had absolutely no answer.
May you like
Slowly, his trembling hand reached out. His cool fingers brushed against her warm palm as he took the medication and drank the water in three quick gulps.
Their eyes locked for a long, silent second before Narin turned back to the bookshelves as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
