The paralyzed mafia boss fired six nurses until a chaotic caregiver walked in late and told him he needed a shower

One week after the attack on the estate, the Baltimore sun shone bright and crisp over the harbor.

Sal Russo and his lieutenants were permanently gone from the city, their territory quietly reabsorbed into Jonah’s syndicate without a single further shot fired. The street had received the message loud and clear: Jonah Mercer was not dead, he was not weak, and his grip on Baltimore was absolute.

Inside the estate, the physical damage had been repaired. The shattered doors were replaced, the marble was polished, and new security systems were installed.

In the master bedroom, Riley was packing her canvas tote bag.

Jonah sat near the sunlit window in his wheelchair, watching her movements.

"What are you doing?" Jonah asked, his tone slightly tense.

"Packing," Riley said, pulling a spare set of scrubs out of the dresser drawer. "My temporary contract with the agency expired yesterday, Mercer."

Jonah’s posture went instantly rigid. "Renewal papers were sent to your agency three days ago. Frank doubled your salary rate."

"I saw," Riley said, stopping her packing to look at him. "It's a very generous offer. But..."

"But what?" Jonah demanded, rolling his chair across the room toward her, stopping right in front of her. "Is the work too hard? Is the security threat unacceptable?"

"No, Jonah," Riley said softly, stepping closer to him, looking down into his intense gray eyes. "It's because I'm not acting like your nurse anymore."

Jonah blinked. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Riley explained, her voice dropping into a tender, honest register he had never heard from her before, "that nurses aren't supposed to stay up all night thinking about how their patient smells. Nurses aren't supposed to want to kiss their patient every time he laughs. And nurses definitely aren't supposed to throw themselves in front of shotguns for their patient."

Jonah stared at her, his breath catching in his throat.

Riley gave him a sad, small smile. "I can't be your caregiver anymore, Jonah. It's unethical. You need a real, professional medical team. And I... I need to figure out what we are."

Silence fell over the room—warm, heavy, and charged with unresolved emotion.

Jonah looked at her canvas tote bag, then looked up at her face, tracing the small, faded scar above her eyebrow.

Slowly, deliberately, Jonah reached out, grabbed the handles of her canvas bag, and tossed it across the room onto the armchair.

"Then quit," Jonah said softly.

Riley frowned. "What?"

"Quit being my nurse," Jonah commanded, taking her wrists and pulling her gently down until she was sitting on his knee, just as she had during the storm. "I don't want a nurse, Riley. I have ten million dollars; I can hire twenty nurses to check my skin and manage my medications."

He rested his warm hand against the side of her neck, his thumb softly tracing her cheekbone.

"I want the chaotic idiot who walked into my office thirty-two minutes late," Jonah whispered, his gray eyes burning with raw, unshielded emotion. "I want the woman who told me I needed a shower. I want you."

Riley’s heart did a violent backflip against her ribs. "Jonah..."

"Stay," he begged softly, his forehead resting against hers. "Not as my employee. As my partner."

Riley looked into his eyes, seeing no trace of the cold mob boss, no trace of the bitter invalid—only the man who made her feel completely, beautifully alive.