She Called Her Mafia Boss to Apologize for Missing Work—Then He Arrived Alone and Found His Trusted Man’s Secret

Christmas morning arrived without sunlight. A thick, gunmetal-gray fog rolled in off Massachusetts Bay, smothering Beacon Hill in a damp, freezing shroud that muffled the city's bells.

I woke in a four-poster mahogany bed draped in pale ivory linen, the thread count so high it felt like water against my skin. For five seconds, the disorientation was total. Then my wrist throbbed, the tight stitches over my brow pulled, and the memory of the previous night slammed back into my chest.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Enter," I said, struggling to sit up while keeping the heavy duvet over my shoulders.

Killian entered carrying a silver tray. He was dressed in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, and a dark navy silk tie. He looked entirely restored, immaculate, and utterly lethargic with controlled violence.

On the tray was a porcelain cup of black tea, a small jug of milk, two slices of buttered sourdough, and a fresh blister pack of pain medication.

"You shouldn't be serving me," I said, my face burning with embarrassment as I reached for the tea with my uninjured right hand.

"Eat," he said, placing the tray across my lap. He stood beside the bed, his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the dark purple bruise blooming across the left side of my jaw. "Declan arrived ten minutes ago. He brought two of his men. They are downstairs in the morning room, drinking my coffee."

The tea cup rattled slightly against the saucer. "Does he know I'm here?"

"No," Killian said coldly. "He thinks you are still lying in an observation bed at St. Brendan's with a concussion and no memory of the car that clipped you. I had the desk nurse log your chart as an unidentifiable hit-and-run victim under heavy sedation."

"What did he say about my car?"

"He said it was a tragedy," Killian replied, his mouth curling into a razor-thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "He said Boston is becoming unlivable for working-class girls. He offered to send flowers to your flat."

A chill ran down my spine, cold and greasy. "What are you going to do?"

"Declan believes the notebook is destroyed," Killian said, walking toward the tall arched windows that overlooked the fog-choked courtyard below. "His men torched the canvas bag in an oil drum behind a warehouse on Summer Street at three this morning. They sent him a photograph of the ashes."

I looked down at the buttered bread. "Then your proof is gone."

"The paper is gone," Killian agreed, turning back toward me. "The signatures are ashes. But the woman who wrote them is sitting in my guest bed."

He walked back to the bedside, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

"Can you remember the dates?" he asked.

"Every single one," I said without hesitation. "I don't just remember the dates, Mr. Ashcroft. I remember what was being cooked in the kitchen when the trucks arrived. I remember that the third delivery happened on March twenty-seventh because the lobstermen were striking in Gloucester. I remember that the eighth delivery arrived during the thunderstorm in August because the driver tracking mud into the vestibule forced me to bleach the parquet floor three times."

A strange, dark satisfaction illuminated his gray eyes. For the first time since I had met him, Killian Ashcroft looked genuinely impressed.

"A mind like a steel trap," he murmured.

"When you have nothing else," I said quietly, "you learn to keep accurate inventory."

"Get dressed," he said, nodding toward the adjoining dressing room. "I had clothes brought from Newbury Street an hour ago. No maid’s uniform. Wear the green wool sweater and the trousers. We have a meeting in twenty minutes."

"In front of Declan?"