I Went Back to the Mafia Boss—Then Saw the Unthinkable in His Car

Leo Carver's small, second-floor apartment in Astoria became a makeshift operating room within twenty minutes.

When Nina pounded on her brother's door, covered in blood and supporting a pale, semi-conscious mob boss, Leo nearly fainted. But twelve months of working in a busy city trauma center kicked in.

"Get him on the kitchen table!" Leo yelled, sweeping away his textbooks and coffee mugs. "Viktor, lock that door! Nina, get all the clean towels from the bathroom and boil a pot of water now!"

For the next two hours, the small apartment was filled with the sharp smell of antiseptic, copper, and sweat.

Leo worked with surgical precision under the bright fluorescent light of the kitchen fixture. He numbed the area, extracted the 9mm slug that was lodged near Vincent’s ribcage, cauterized the bleeding vessels, and stitched the muscle tissue back together with deep, meticulous sutures.

Nina stood at the head of the table the entire time, holding Vincent’s hand.

Vincent groaned in agony through his gritted teeth, his body shaking with shock, but every time his gray eyes flickered open, he looked only at her. His grip on her hand was so tight her fingers went numb, but she didn't pull away for a single second.

By 4:30 AM, the bleeding had stopped.

Vincent was resting on Leo's small living room sofa, wrapped in warm blankets, an IV bag taped to a floor lamp dripping saline and antibiotics into his arm. His color was slowly returning, his breathing deep and even.

Leo washed his bloody hands in the kitchen sink, looking utterly exhausted. He walked over to Nina, who was sitting on a wooden chair, staring blankly at her blood-stained sweater.

"He's going to live, Nina," Leo said quietly, wrapping a blanket around his sister's shoulders. "The bullet missed his liver by two centimeters. He's strong. He'll be able to walk in forty-eight hours."

Nina looked up at her brother, tears welling in her eyes again. "Leo... I'm so sorry. I dragged you into this. If anyone finds out—"

"Hey," Leo interrupted sternly, kneeling beside her chair and taking her hands. "That man paid for my tuition. He saved Mom’s life. When Sloan-Kettering called, they saved her from dying in pain. I don't care if he's the Pope or the Don of New York. I owe him his life, and so do you. We're even now."

Viktor walked in from the hallway, his phone held to his ear, speaking in rapid, low Italian. He hung up and walked over to the sofa where Vincent lay.

"Don Vincent," Viktor said quietly.

Vincent opened his eyes. "What is the situation?"

"Dante has declared himself acting Don," Viktor reported grimly. "He told the council that you were killed in Jersey by the marshals. He's taking over the shipping lines in Newark tomorrow morning, and he has placed a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on my head."

Vincent closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath that caused him to wince slightly against his bandages.

"And The Glass House?" Nina asked, her heart freezing.

"Dante sent four of his men there an hour ago," Viktor said, looking at her with apology in his eyes. "They locked the doors. They told the staff that Miss Carver is fired and that the venue now belongs to Dante's private holdings."

Nina’s hands clenched into tight fists. The anger that flared up inside her was hotter and purer than anything she had ever felt in her life.

This monster had shot Vincent. He had lied to the family council. And now he was destroying everything they had built together.

She stood up from her chair, walking over to the couch, looking down into Vincent’s tired gray eyes.

"We aren't running upstate, Vincent," Nina said, her voice hard as steel.

Vincent looked up at her, surprised by the fierce authority in her voice. "Nina... Dante has thirty armed men. He has the council."

"He has a lie," Nina corrected sharply. "He built his entire takeover on a lie. He told the council you were dead. What happens when the council finds out you are alive—and that he tried to murder his own uncle?"

Vincent stared at her, a slow, dangerous fire igniting in his gray eyes.

"Marco," Vincent whispered, turning his head toward Viktor. "Marco is the oldest caporegime on the council. He loved my father. He despises Dante. If Marco sees that I am alive..."