Her Drunk Stepdad Hit Her at Dinner—Then the Mafia Boss Said, Let Go of Her Right Now

The interior of the Maybach smelled of expensive Italian leather and cedarwood.

I sat in the plush leather seat, my legs still trembling slightly, watching the blur of Manhattan lights bleed through the rain-streaked windows. Damon sat across from me on the facing bench, a glass tumbler of ice water in his hand, watching me in dead silence.

"Where are we going?" I asked, clutching my handbag tightly against my lap.

"My residence," Damon replied smoothly. "A penthouse on Fifth Avenue. It has three security checkpoints, twenty-four-hour armed guards, and zero chance of Grant Holloway getting within four blocks of you."

"I have a job," I murmured, staring down at my bruised wrist. "At the bookstore on 8th Street. I'm supposed to open tomorrow at seven in the morning."

"You won't be going to work tomorrow," Damon stated flatly.

My head snapped up, a flash of defensive anger cutting through my fear. "Excuse me? I've worked at that shop for three years! It's the only independent money I have!"

Damon leaned forward, setting his glass on the built-in mahogany console between us. He reached out, his long fingers gently grasping the edge of my sleeve, pulling it back three inches to expose the mottled purple finger marks on my skin.

"Look at this, Maya," he commanded softly, his voice devoid of anger but heavy with absolute truth. "You think Grant grabbed you tonight because he was drunk? He grabbed you because he knows you're applying for that assistant manager job. He knows that if you get a raise, you can afford your own apartment and leave his sphere of control."

I went completely quiet.

"Men like Grant don't let their victims gain independence," Damon continued, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "If you go back to that bookstore tomorrow, he will meet you in the alleyway behind the shop. He will put you in his car, and he will take you home. And your mother won't be there to watch next time."

A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and bitter. I knew he was right. I had spent two years secretly saving every penny from my bookstore paychecks, hiding cash inside hollowed-out classic novels in my bedroom, waiting for the day I had enough for a deposit on a studio apartment.

"So what am I supposed to do?" I choked out, wiping the tear away with the back of my sleeve. "Stay in your apartment forever? I don't even know who you are."

"You know who I am," Damon said softly, his touch releasing my wrist gently. "I am the man who took Grant's hand off you. And tomorrow, my lawyers will draft a formal employment contract for you."

I blinked, bewildered. "Employment contract?"

"My executive assistant resigned two weeks ago," Damon said as the Maybach pulled into a subterranean garage beneath a high-rise luxury building. "The position pays eighty thousand dollars a year, includes private apartment housing in Brooklyn, and full security detail. In exchange, you organize my schedules and keep your mouth shut about my family's business."