My husband had just snapped my arm inside our apartment, and while I hid in the bathroom bleeding, I made one desperate phone call to the most feared Mafia boss in New York. He laughed outside the door, convinced no one would ever risk their life for a broken waitress like me. What he didn't know was that the man on the other end had already answered—and he was already coming.

The journey down the apartment building's emergency staircase was a blur of flashing lights and soft leather.

Vincent carried me out into the alleyway where three black, armored SUVs waited with their engines idling. He slid into the spacious backseat of the middle vehicle, keeping me cradled in his lap to minimize any jarring movements as the heavy doors slammed shut.

"Drive straight to St. Jude’s Private Hospital," Vincent ordered the driver. "Tell Dr. Ross we are arriving in six minutes with a compound fracture."

"Vincent," I whispered, my fingers clutching his lapel. "I don't have insurance... I can't pay for a private hospital..."

Vincent looked down at me, his dark eyes softening. "Lena, you will never worry about money, medical bills, or a roof over your head ever again. Do you understand me? You called. I answered. That makes you my responsibility."

"Why?" I choked out, a question that had been burning in my mind for months finally spilling out. "I was just a waitress who spilled coffee on your shoes. Why would you do this for me?"

Vincent stayed silent for a long moment, looking out the rain-slicked window at the passing neon lights of Manhattan.

"Because when you spilled that coffee six months ago," Vincent said quietly, "you were shaking so badly you could barely hold the tray. I saw the bruises on your wrist under your sleeve. I asked you if you were alright, and you smiled through your tears and said you were fine."

He looked back at me, his fingers gently tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear.

"I spent twenty years surrounded by men who pretend to be brave when they are cowards," he whispered. "In that diner, I saw a woman who was truly brave, fighting every single day just to survive. I left that card because I knew a day would come when you would finally decide you deserved to live."

Ten minutes later, we pulled into the underground ambulance bay of a private, gated facility in Manhattan.

A team of doctors and nurses wearing pristine scrubs was already waiting with a gurney. Within seconds, I was swept out of the car and rolled into a private wing. Dr. Ross, a distinguished man in his fifties, worked with practiced, quiet speed, administering a powerful intravenous painkiller that finally brought sweet, warm relief to my battered body.

As my eyelids grew heavy, I saw Vincent standing in the doorway of the trauma room, his arms crossed over his chest, guarding the entrance like an impenetrable wall.

"Vincent?" I murmured, my voice slurred by the medicine.

He stepped over immediately, taking my right hand in his. "I'm right here, Lena."

"Don't leave," I whispered.