“Sorry I’m Late,” She Whispered—The Mafia Boss Froze When He Saw the Blood Trail Behind Her

The rain returned at dawn, hitting the tall arched windows of the French Quarter office with a steady, rhythmic drumming.

Declan had not slept. He sat at his mahogany desk, a cold cup of black coffee at his elbow, watching Cersa Van breathe. Her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow motions. The color was slowly returning to her lips, shifting from an alarming grayish-blue to a faint pink.

He had spent the early hours of the morning piecing together the timeline.

Two weeks ago, Cersa had walked into his establishment offering a trade: her technical expertise to give him the structural weakness he needed to cripple Victor Moretti's riverfront development, in exchange for Declan liquidating the eighty-thousand-dollar debt her foolish nineteen-year-old sister had racked up at Moretti's illegal poker rooms.

It had been a simple transaction. Low risk, high yield. He had categorized her as a desperate, overly intelligent civilian playing above her weight class out of familial obligation.

Now he knew the truth. The eighty-thousand-dollar debt had been a cover story. Cersa had deliberately used her sister's predicament as an excuse to approach Declan Maher—the only criminal boss in the city with enough manpower, intelligence, and restraint to stand against the Moretti machine without immediately selling her out to the highest bidder.

She had played him.

A soft groan came from the sofa.

Cersa stirred, her fingers twitching against the wool blanket Declan had placed over her. Her eyes flickered open, bloodshot and squinting against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds. She tried to sit up, but the moment she shifted her body, a sharp gasp of agony escaped her teeth.

"Don't," Declan said, his voice smooth and neutral from across the room. "The fascia was torn. If you pop those stitches, Fontineau will have to re-open the leg without an anesthetic."

Cersa froze, her body trembling with the effort of holding herself still. She looked down at the heavy bandage wrapped tightly around her upper thigh, then up at Declan sitting behind his desk.

"Where... where am I?" she rasped, her throat dry and raw.

"My office. Second floor. Above the Red Anchor Club," Declan said, standing up and pouring a glass of room-temperature water from a crystal carafe. He walked over and handed it to her.

She took it with trembling hands, drinking greedily until the glass was empty. "How long was I out?"

"Eleven hours."

She closed her eyes, letting her head drop back against the armrest. "Is Petra..."

"Petra is alive. She is currently at a safehouse in Covington under my protection," Declan lied again, keeping his tone perfectly measured. "She is eating breakfast and complaining about the lack of wi-fi. You, on the other hand, are four inches away from a permanent limp."

Cersa let out a long breath. "The drive..."

"Under my cabinet," Declan said, walking back to his desk and picking up the black thumb drive. "Where you left it."

Cersa looked at his face, her sharp grey eyes searching his features for any sign of betrayal. "Did you read it?"

"I read the structural reports," Declan said smoothly. "Pier 14 has a severe concrete degradation issue in the sub-aquatic pilings. Enough to halt construction by order of the Coast Guard tomorrow morning if those papers find their way to the regional inspector's desk."

She waited, her breath hitched in her throat. "And?"

"And I also opened the second folder," Declan said, dropping the drive onto the desk with a sharp clack. "The one labeled Project Aegis."

The room went dead silent. The rhythm of the rain outside seemed to grow louder, filling the space between them.

Cersa didn't flinch. She didn't look away. The fear that had been in her eyes when she had collapsed in his doorway twenty-three minutes late yesterday was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating brilliance that Declan recognized all too well. It was the look of a person who had spent years playing a game where a single mistake meant death.

"I told you not to open it," she said quietly.

"You knew I would," Declan replied, leaning back against his desk and folding his arms across his chest. "You knew that a man like me doesn't take blind packages from people who bleed on his floor. You planted that data because you knew that once Victor Moretti caught onto you, you wouldn't survive the night without an army."

Cersa let out a small, bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "I didn't plant it to trick you, Maher. I put it there because if I died on your doorstep, someone needed to have the ammunition to burn Victor Moretti to the ground."

"Who gave you that wound?" Declan asked, his eyes darkening.

"Marco Moretti," she said flatly. "Victor's younger brother. He intercepted me at the municipal parking garage six blocks from here. He had two men with him. They didn't know about Project Aegis—they thought I was just leaking city permits to an independent contractor. Marco wanted to show me what happens to civil servants who don't take the family's money."

Declan felt a sudden, cold heat bloom behind his ribs. Marco Moretti was a violent, erratic hound who liked using knives on people who couldn't fight back.

"He cut you," Declan said.

"I hit him in the larynx with a heavy steel clip-board and ran," Cersa said, her voice tight with residual adrenaline. "I bled through four alleys to lose his men before I made it to your building. I was late because I had to walk three miles around the Quarter so they wouldn't follow the trail to your front door."

Declan stared at her. She had been stabbed in the leg by a murderous sociopath, had fought her way out, and had then walked three miles through a torrential downpour, leaking blood into her shoes, solely to ensure she didn't compromise his location.

"You are either the smartest woman I have ever met," Declan said softly, "or the most terrifyingly reckless."

"I am an engineer, Mr. Maher," Cersa said, her eyes burning with an intense, unwavering flame. "When I see a structure that is corrupt, rotted, and collapsing, I don't try to patch the drywall. I calculate the charge placement and blow the foundation."

"And what am I in your calculations?" Declan asked, stepping closer to the sofa until he was standing directly over her. "Are you using my syndicate as your explosives?"

"You're not the explosive, Declan," she whispered, looking straight into his dark eyes. "You're the detonator. And whether you like it or not, Marco Moretti knows I came into this building. He knows I'm here. Which means your war with the Moretti family didn't start over Pier 14."