Marcus drove her into Manhattan in near silence, past neighborhoods Grace only ever saw from bus windows and television screens. They crossed into a world of polished glass, doormen, designer storefronts, and women whose coats cost more than Grace had made in a month at the hospital.
The car stopped in front of an elegant Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side.
It was closed to the public.
Inside, the dining room glowed with candles. White tablecloths. Crystal stemware. Oil paintings. No customers. No staff in sight beyond one discreet waiter who led her to a table by the window.
Vincent stood when she approached.
In daylight, in a tailored charcoal suit, he looked even more dangerous than he had on her couch. Not because of blood or panic now, but because he had become composed again. Ruthless control seemed to radiate off him like heat.
“Miss Mitchell,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
Grace sat only after he gestured for her to do so.
“You said there’s a job.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t touch the water in front of him. He simply looked at her with that unnerving directness, as if he had already weighed every possible outcome.
“My daughter needs someone,” he said.
Grace said nothing.
“She hasn’t been the same since her mother died. She speaks very little. Eats only when pushed. Trusts no one. We have had nannies, tutors, therapists. None lasted.”
“And you think I can?”
“I know you can.”
“That’s a lot of certainty for one night.”
Vincent’s eyes did not leave her face. “That night was the first time Mia spoke to someone outside me in nearly two years.”
Grace felt her breath catch.
“She asked about you the next morning,” he continued. “Then again that afternoon. Then before bed. She wanted to know when she would see you again. Do you understand what that means?”
Grace understood enough to feel her chest tighten.
Vincent leaned back slightly. “I want you to come work for me as Mia’s private caregiver.”
Her mind blanked for a beat.
“Live in my home. Care for her. Help her heal.”
He named a salary.
Eight thousand dollars a month.
Then he added room and board. Full medical insurance. Coverage for Maggie. A better facility if Grace wanted one. Transportation. Security. Anything Mia needed to stabilize.
It was more money than Grace had ever imagined anyone would offer her.
There should have been no decision.
Yet the first words out of her mouth were, “I know who you are.”
Vincent did not flinch.
“I looked you up,” she said. “You’re not just some businessman.”
“No.”
“You’re a mafia boss.”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it rattled her more than a lie would have.
“You still want me there knowing that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your first instinct was to help a child, not calculate risk. Because you had almost nothing and still gave what you had. Because Mia trusted you. Because I trust her instinct more than most adults’ judgment.”
Grace looked down at her hands. She could feel the whole weight of the offer pressing down on her—Maggie’s care, her own debts, the chance to stop drowning.
Also the danger.
“What exactly would I be walking into?” she asked.
Vincent’s answer came without softness. “My world is not clean. It never will be entirely clean. But your work would be with my daughter. Not my business. Not my affairs. Mia.”
Grace swallowed.
“You’d be safe?”
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