"I Can’t Do This Anymore," The Drunken Mafia Boss Knocked on My Door Saying He Needed Me

I signed the contract that evening in Raphael's private study.

By six o'clock, my phone rang. It was Dr. Vance from the pediatric oncology unit at St. Jude's. His voice was breathless with excitement as he informed me that a full corporate grant had cleared Micah’s entire medical debt and guaranteed his spot in the groundbreaking trial starting the following Monday.

I slid onto the floor of my bedroom, pulled my knees to my chest, and wept tears of pure, overwhelming relief.

For two years, I had carried the weight of my brother's life on my fragile shoulders. Now, with the stroke of a pen, Raphael had lifted the mountain off my back.

But relief came with a steep price.

The next morning, my role in the Orsini estate changed entirely.

I was no longer sweeping floors or polishing silverware. Raphael appointed me as his primary executive secretary, moving my desk directly inside his grand study behind the heavy mahogany doors.

The shift did not go unnoticed.

Victor Vane stood at the edge of the desk on my third morning, his cold blue eyes glaring down at me with sharp suspicion as I organized Raphael’s daily intelligence reports.

"She’s a maid, Raphael," Victor said, his voice dripping with venom. "She has no security clearance. She hasn't been vetted by the family council."

Raphael didn't even look up from his desk. "Clara’s background is cleaner than anyone’s in this room, Victor. She stays."

"She’s a distraction," Victor spat, leaning over the desk. "The Morettis are pushing our borders in the south side. Sal Valenti is making moves near the docks. We need discipline, not a charity case taking up space in the inner command."

Raphael’s hand stopped writing.

He raised his head slowly. The air in the study instantly turned sub-zero.

"Speak about Miss Clara in that tone again, Victor," Raphael said, his voice dangerously soft, "and I will personally reassign you to guard the waste management facilities in Gary, Indiana."

Victor’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched under his scar. He glared at me once more, a dark, murderous promise in his eyes, before turning on his heel and exiting the study.

I looked at Raphael, my hands trembling as I held a folder of financial documents.

"He hates me," I said softly.

"He fears you," Raphael corrected, standing up from his leather chair and walking around the desk toward me. "Because he sees that you hold something no gun or money can buy in this house."

"What’s that?"