Everyone Fled the Paralyzed Mafia Boss Within Three Days—But When Declan Ordered His Poor New Maid to Leave, Narin Refused, Dragged Him Out of an Ambush, and Made the Most Feared Man in the City Realize She Wasn’t Staying Out of Pity

The narrow service corridor was pitch black, lit only by the flickering red emergency lights along the ceiling.

Narin pushed the wheelchair at a dead sprint, her lungs burning, her muscles screaming with exhaustion. Behind them, muffled shouts and heavy footsteps echoed down the hall as the surviving Rossy assassins realized their target had vanished.

“In there!” Narin gasped, kicking open a metal fire door leading into the service freight lift.

She shoved Declan’s chair inside, slapped the illuminated 'BASEMENT' button, and grabbed a metal crowbar off the maintenance rack, jamming it into the door mechanism just as a hail of bullets slammed against the heavy steel exterior of the shaft!

SPARK! SPARK! CLANG!

The lift groaned, its cables straining as it descended slowly into the dark depths of the mansion.

Inside the tiny elevator cage, Declan leaned against the armrest, catching his breath, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Narin. Her uniform was torn at the shoulder, her hands were covered in black soot, and a small cut on her temple was bleeding down her pale cheek.

“You’re out of your mind,” Declan whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and profound awe. “You came back into a gunfight... for a maid’s salary?”

Narin wiped the trickle of blood from her face with the back of her sleeve, her dark eyes flashing in the dim emergency light.

“I told you, Mr. Graham,” she panted, looking him straight in the eye. “I finish my shift.”

Declan stared at her, his jaw clenching tightly. For three years, he had been surrounded by mercenary guards, corrupt lieutenants, and fair-weather allies who had fled the moment his spine was severed. Yet this poor, penniless girl who had known him for four days had walked into a hail of bullets to drag his broken body out of the fire.

The lift shuddered to a halt in the concrete basement garage.

The heavy steel doors slid open, revealing a damp, cavernous underground parking bay filled with dark luxury vehicles.

Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness!

“Over there!” a voice shouted from across the concrete floor.

It was Victor.

Declan’s trusted lieutenant stood near a matte-black armored sedan, accompanied by three heavy guards holding submachine guns. But instead of rushing forward to assist his Don, Victor kept his gun lowered, a dark, calculating smirk spreading across his face.

“Well, well,” Victor said smoothly, stepping into the dim light. “I didn't expect you to make it out of the study, Declan.”

Declan’s steel eyes went ice-cold. “Victor... you set up the perimeter breach.”

“The Rossy family paid ten million dollars for your head, Declan,” Victor revealed casually, raising his weapon. “You’ve been a useless cripple sitting in that chair for three years, rotting away while I did all the heavy lifting in the streets. It’s time for new leadership.”