“Please Don’t Send Me Away,” the Drunk Mafia Boss Told His Maid—She Had Never Seen Him So Vulnerable

The cabin sat at the end of a hidden dirt track, completely surrounded by dense pine woods. It was a modest, two-story log structure with a steep tin roof, completely dark and silent against the roaring storm.

Norah managed to haul Arthur out of the car.

He was semi-conscious, his massive frame leaning heavily against her shoulder as she dragged him up the icy wooden steps of the front porch. She reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small brass key, and unlocked the heavy door.

Inside smelled of dried pine, old paper, and cold ash.

She dragged him onto a worn leather sofa in the center of the living room, letting him collapse onto the cushions.

Norah didn't waste time looking for lights. She found a kerosene lantern on the fireplace mantel, struck a match, and filled the room with a warm, amber glow.

She ripped open Arthur’s white shirt, exposing the gunshot wound in his shoulder.

The bullet had passed entirely through the meat of his shoulder—a clean entry and exit wound—but it was bleeding heavily, the red stain spreading rapidly across his chest.

“Nora...” Arthur grunted, his eyes opening slowly, unfocused.

“Shut up,” she ordered, her hands covered in his blood. “Where is the first-aid kit?”

“Kitchen... under the sink... yellow box.”

Norah ran into the small kitchen, retrieved the heavy metal first-aid box, and grabbed a bottle of high-proof bourbon from the counter. She pulled a iron pot of water from the stove, lit the gas burner with a match, and waited for it to heat.

When she returned, she knelt beside the sofa.

“This is going to hurt,” she said flatly.

“I’ve had worse,” Arthur lied, his jaw clenched.

Norah poured the bourbon directly over the entry wound.

Arthur let out a strangled, animal roar, his entire body convulsing against the leather sofa, his right hand seizing the edge of the wooden coffee table hard enough to crack the varnish. Tears of pure agony leaked from the corners of his eyes.

Norah worked with terrifying, cold efficiency. She cleaned the entry and exit points with sterile gauze, packed the wounds with styptic powder from the box, and wrapped his shoulder tightly with wide cotton bandages, pulling the knot taut until the bleeding slowed to a trickle.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels on the maple floorboards, her hands dripping with red, her chest heaving.

Arthur lay on the sofa, his chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted rhythms. The fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by pure physical defeat.

He slowly reached out with his good arm, his bloody fingers touching her mud-stained hand.

“Why didn't you leave me in the car, Nora?” he asked softly, his voice raspy. “You could have taken the car, taken the money, and vanished.”

Norah looked down at their joined hands—the maid and the mob boss, sitting in the middle of a dark Wisconsin forest, both covered in blood.

“Because you came to my door at three in the morning,” she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time all night. “And because when you looked at me, you didn't see a maid. You just saw a human being.”

Arthur stared at her through the warm amber light of the lantern.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself up slightly, his hand sliding up her arm to cup the back of her neck. He pulled her down toward him until her forehead rested against his chest.

Norah didn't pull away. She closed her eyes, listening to the strong, steady beating of his heart beneath her cheek.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur whispered into her hair, “I finish this.”

“No,” Norah said, looking up at him. “Tomorrow, we live.”

“Sal won't stop, Nora,” Arthur said, his tone turning grave and quiet. “As long as he’s alive, he’ll hunt us. He has the syndicate behind him now. The only way out of this house is through the front door.”

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a small black leather notebook, and handed it to her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s my insurance policy,” Arthur said. “The complete financial ledgers of the Midwest syndicate. Every bribe paid to every judge, governor, and police chief in Illinois for the last twenty years. My father kept it in a safety deposit box in Milwaukee.”

He looked into her eyes.

“If anything happens to me tomorrow... take this book to the Federal Prosecutor's office downtown. They’ll give you total immunity and witness protection.”

Norah held the heavy little notebook in her hands.