Cold, gray dawn seeped through the ventilation grate of the underground safe room.
I opened my eyes against the concrete wall, my entire body throbbing with a dull, unfamiliar ache. The air tasted like rust and spent gunpowder. The synthetic fire that had scorched my veins for hours had burned out, leaving behind a hollow, sickening clarity.
Beside me, the man lay motionless on the narrow cot, his bandaged torso rising and falling in deep, measured breaths.
I looked at the dried blood on the sterile gauze taped across his abdomen, then down at myself. My fingers gripped the edge of his oversized white dress shirt, bunched around my bare thighs.
A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to press a hand over my mouth to keep from gagging.
Two years.
For two years, I had held Mason at arm’s length. I had endured his passive-aggressive sighs, his late-night guilt trips, and his constant reminders that normal couples didn't wait. I had guarded my virginity like a fortress, convinced that giving it away was a sacred threshold reserved for a clean, stable future.
And I had thrown it away in a locked basement with a dangerous stranger whose name I didn't even know.
Shame coiled tight around my ribs, squeezing the air from my lungs. I was a cheater. I was disgusting.
I sat up, fighting the tremor in my knees as my bare feet touched the freezing concrete. The man didn't stir, though the heavy lines of his face remained sharp and guarded even in sleep. He looked lethal, a creature carved out of shadow and violence.
I moved quietly, desperate not to wake him.
My scrub top was ruined, stained with his blood, but my pants were folded on the edge of the steel workbench. I pulled them on with shaking hands, keeping his white shirt buttoned and tucked into the waistband. My shoes were near the door.
I snatched my handbag from the floor, my fingers fumbling with the strap. In my frantic haste to leave before his dark eyes opened, something small and plastic slipped from my pocket and bounced softly on the concrete. I didn't stop to look.
I unlocked the reinforced blast door, eased it open, and slipped into the empty service corridor.
The casino above was completely silent at six in the morning. The cleanup crew had already scrubbed the blood from the VIP lounge carpet. No police tape. No sirens. It was as if the shooting had never happened.
I hurried out the employee exit into the chilly desert morning, flagged the first taxi I saw, and gave the driver my apartment address.
The moment I stepped inside my tiny one-bedroom apartment, my phone buzzed inside the scrub pocket where I had shoved it the night before.
A notification sat at the top of the screen from the hospital director.
*Lena, the three-month emergency surgical rotation in Sicily still needs an immediate placement. The flight leaves from LAX tonight. Let me know by noon.*
I stared at the screen, tears blurring the text.
I couldn't stay here. I couldn't look Mason in the eye. Every time he touched my hand or kissed my cheek, I would remember the feel of heavy hands on my hips and the smell of cedar in a windowless room. The guilt would swallow me whole.
My thumb hit the screen.
*I'll take it. Sending my confirmation now.*
I threw three pairs of scrubs, basic clothes, and my passport into a single duffel bag. I didn't pack photos. I didn't leave a note on the kitchen counter for Mason. I simply booked a connecting shuttle to Los Angeles, locked the front door behind me, and walked away from Las Vegas.
***
Roman opened his eyes the second the outer door latch clicked shut down the corridor.
He didn't move immediately. He lay on the steel cot, letting his senses map the room. The air still carried the faint, sweet scent of the nurse’s skin, but the cot beside him was cold.
She had run.
He sat up slowly, testing the pull of the stitches across his lower abdomen. The wound had been packed and dressed with surgical precision. For a woman out of her mind on an incapacitating stimulant, her hands had been remarkably steady when it counted.
He swung his legs over the cot and stood, his bare feet silent on the floor.
Near the heavy blast door, a white plastic card lay face-down on the gray cement.
Roman picked it up.
It was a standard casino medical clearance badge. In the center was a clear photograph of a girl with wide, hazel eyes and dark brown hair pulled into a sensible ponytail.
*Lena Brooks, RN. Level 2 Trauma Staff.*
A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of his mouth. Lena.
Heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, followed by three sharp raps on the steel frame.
The door pushed open, and Marco stepped inside, two armed guards flanking the threshold. Marco took one look at Roman’s bandaged waist and lowered his head.
"Boss," Marco said, his voice tight with relief. "The perimeter is secure. The crew that hit the penthouse has been wiped out. We tracked the weapons back to the Russo family's local crew."
"I know who sent them," Roman said, his voice low and raspy. He turned the badge over in his fingers. "The girl who was with me. Find her."
Marco took the card, glancing at the name. "Did she see your face?"
"She saw everything," Roman replied, stepping toward the footlocker to pull out a clean black shirt. "Run her background. I want to know who owns her."
Marco tapped the details into an encrypted tablet, his fingers flying across the glass. Less than thirty seconds later, the screen refreshed with full security clearances, tax records, and hospital employment logs.
"Completely clean," Marco reported, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "No criminal record. No family ties to any syndicate. Grew up in Ohio, moved to Vegas two years ago for the trauma residency. She lives alone in an apartment near the strip."
"Where is she now?"
Marco checked the live transport feeds linked to the city's airport database. "She checked in for a flight to Los Angeles forty minutes ago. Final destination: Palermo, Sicily. Emergency three-month medical rotation with the international red cross unit."
Roman paused, buttoning his cuffs. "Sicily?"
"Boarding starts in two hours," Marco said. "Should I send a team to intercept her at the gate?"
Roman looked at the empty cot in the corner of the bunker. She hadn't gone to the police. She hadn't tried to blackmail him or ask for money. The moment the drug wore off, she had run to the opposite side of the planet out of sheer panic and guilt.
"Let her fly," Roman said quietly. "Keep one man on her in Palermo. Don't let her know she's being watched."
"Understood."
Before Marco could hand back the badge, Roman’s private encrypted phone vibrated against the metal workbench.
The screen lit up with an incoming call.
*Mason Reed.*
Roman picked up the phone and tapped the speaker button.
"Speak," Roman said.
"Boss," Mason's voice came through the line, smooth, reverent, and dripping with eager respect. "I heard there was a disturbance near the VIP lounge last night. I wanted to make sure you were unharmed."
Roman glanced down at the bloodstained gauze covering his ribs.
He knew exactly where Mason had been while the bullets were flying. His surveillance team had already confirmed it hours ago: Mason had spent the entire night in the penthouse suite of Valentina Russo, the mafia heiress whose father had ordered the hit on the safe house.
Mason was playing both sides, sleeping with the enemy while desperately trying to secure a promotion to Roman’s inner circle. To keep his public background spotless for the syndicate's vetting process, Mason had maintained a two-year relationship with a quiet, wholesome hospital nurse—a clean cover girl who made him look grounded, stable, and completely disconnected from the underworld.
A cover girl Mason had neglected for months.
"I'm alive, Reed," Roman said, his tone cold and level.
"That's great news, Boss," Mason replied quickly, his tone eager to please. "I’ve finalized the quarterly logistics reports for your review. I’m ready for the promotion hearing whenever you have time on your schedule."
Roman looked at the plastic badge in his hand, his thumb brushing over Lena Brooks's face.
"We'll discuss your promotion very soon, Mason," Roman said, his voice dropping an octave. "Very soon."
