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

The penthouse on Fifth Avenue was less of an apartment and more of a private glass fortress.

It occupied the entire top two floors of the building, featuring dark hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and minimalist gray furniture. Security cameras blinked softly in every corner, and silent men in dark suits moved quietly through the background like ghosts.

Damon led me down a wide hallway to a guest suite that was larger than my stepfather's entire ground floor. It had a king-sized bed, a private balcony, and a walk-in closet stocked with fresh, unworn women's clothing in various sizes.

"My sister used to stay here when she visited from London," Damon explained, standing in the doorway while a middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform handed me a tray containing chamomile tea and lavender ointment. "This is Martha. She will bring you anything you need. The doors lock from the inside. You are completely safe here."

"Damon," I said, stopping him before he could turn away.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly, standing near the foot of the bed. "Men in your world don't offer eighty-thousand-dollar jobs and safehouses out of the goodness of their hearts. What's the catch?"

Damon turned his body completely toward me. His tall frame framed the doorway, his silhouette imposing yet strangely protective.

"The catch, Maya," Damon said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly register, "is that Grant Holloway didn't just owe money to a Queens loan shark. He owed that money because he was selling information about my family's port shipping routes to a rival syndicate in Jersey."

My breath caught in my throat. "Grant was... betraying your family?"

"Grant thought he was clever," Damon said coldly. "He used your mother's name to set up the dummy accounts to hide the bribes. If federal agents or rival hitmen look into those accounts, your mother is the one who goes to prison, not Grant."

Horror slammed into me like a physical blow. My knees felt weak. "Oh God... Mom..."

"I found out three days ago," Damon revealed. "I went to Élan tonight to put a bullet through Grant's reputation and force him into a corner. But then I saw him grab your wrist."

He took two slow steps into the room, stopping three feet from me.

"I don't hurt women, Maya," Damon said softly, his dark eyes gleaming with absolute sincerity. "And I don't let dirt like Grant Holloway destroy innocent lives to pay off his gambling debts. Stay here. Help me unravel Grant's financial paper trail from the inside using what you know about his house, and I will make sure your mother is completely cleared of all charges."

I looked down at the lavender ointment on the tray, then raised my eyes to meet his.

"He keeps his private ledgers in a floor safe behind the bookcase in his study," I whispered. "The combination is my mother's birthday."