“Bring Her to Me,” the Mafia Boss Said Coldly—And From That Moment, Her Life Was Never the Same. Blood tasted like old pennies and regret.

A plush black leather examination chair stood prominently in the exact center of the room.

The crisp white paper covering its surface rustled slightly when Clara abruptly halted just inside the open doorway.

The sharp, clinical scent of rubbing alcohol and strong iodine completely filled the air.

That specific, haunting smell instantly transported her mind back to the grueling months she had spent trying to sleep in a plastic chair directly beside her dying mother’s hospital bed.

Her empty stomach violently churned at the memory.

"Have a seat."

A tired-looking man suddenly emerged from behind a frosted glass partition.

He wore a highly wrinkled white dress shirt with its cuffs casually rolled back over his heavily veined forearms.

A black medical stethoscope hung loosely around his thick neck.

He absolutely did not fit the glamorous, theatrical image of a wealthy mob physician.

He just looked incredibly exhausted.

Deep, dark circles heavily bruised the delicate skin surrounding his eyes, and his graying beard desperately required a good trimming.

Clara slowly approached the examination chair exactly like a mindless sleepwalker.

She nervously perched right on its edge, instantly dampening the crinkly clean paper with her soaking wet clothes.

"I am Dr. Hayes."

He efficiently snapped a pair of blue latex gloves onto his hands.

He then leaned in and examined her battered face with complete clinical detachment.

"Lean all the way back for me."

Clara stubbornly remained perfectly upright.

"Why exactly am I sitting here?"

Dr. Hayes paused his movements.

He finally looked at her properly for the very first time since she entered.

He clearly saw the violent trembling, the raw terror shining brightly inside her brown eyes, and the protective way her crossed arms guarded her fractured ribs.

His professional expression finally softened just a tiny fraction.

"You are here simply because the boss personally brought you here," Hayes explained smoothly.

"My only job tonight is to make absolutely certain you do not accidentally bleed all over his imported rugs."

He gestured impatiently toward the leather back of the chair.

"Now please lean back."

Clara reluctantly obeyed his medical command.

The simple movement sent a spike of searing pain ripping through her battered chest, and a sharp, ragged breath quickly escaped her lips.

"Is it your ribs?"

"Yes."

"Take off the heavy coat."

The soaking wet jacket slid from her shivering shoulders incredibly slowly, peeling away exactly like an unwanted second layer of dead skin.

Underneath the ruined coat, Clara wore a simple, cheap gray T-shirt currently marked with old dirty puddle water and incredibly fresh blood.

Hayes casually lifted a pair of heavy trauma shears and efficiently sliced the cotton shirt directly up the center.

Clara immediately reacted in panic and crossed her bruised arms tightly over her cheap bra.

The weary doctor moved her hands aside with a very gentle but undeniable firmness.

"I am a licensed physician, sweetheart."

"I am absolutely not a priest or a physical threat to you."

He calmly continued cutting away the ruined fabric.

"Just let me do my work."

Deep, ugly purple and severely swollen red bruising completely covered the entire left side of Clara’s delicate rib cage.

Hayes expertly examined the terrible swelling with his gloved fingers and applied just enough firm pressure to properly evaluate the internal injury.

Clara bit down hard on her injured lip and desperately held back a loud cry of agony.

Hot tears instantly formed at the corners of her eyes.

"You have two badly bruised ribs, and possibly one that is fully fractured," Hayes muttered quietly to himself.

He took a step away from the examination chair.

"Thankfully, nothing internal appears to be punctured."

"You are incredibly fortunate his heavy boots were relatively dull."

He turned his back to her and faced the stainless-steel sink.

"I am going to start cleaning the various injuries on your face."

"It is definitely going to sting."

It absolutely did.

Harsh medical alcohol entered the deep split in her lip and her badly scraped cheek exactly like searing liquid fire.

Clara gripped the chair’s padded armrests so incredibly hard that her knuckles instantly whitened.

She focused all her mental energy on the low fluorescent hum and the powerful stench of iodine.

She desperately focused on absolutely anything that prevented her from considering what terrible fate came next.

The heavy clinic door suddenly swung open right behind her.

The metallic sound was incredibly quiet, but the entire atmosphere of the room seemed to violently shift around it.

The distinct smells of cold rain, lingering cigarette smoke, and highly expensive cologne sharply cut straight through the sterile clinical air.

Dr. Hayes immediately stopped cleaning the wounds on Clara’s face.

He took a deeply respectful step backward.

"Mr. Russo."

Clara did not dare to turn her head around.

She physically could not bring herself to do it.

A primal survival instinct significantly older than human reason clearly told her that sudden movement would only bring immediate death.

Very slow, deliberate footsteps confidently crossed the shiny linoleum floor.

Damian Russo finally entered her limited field of vision.

The expensive charcoal overcoat was now completely gone.

He currently wore a crisp white dress shirt casually left open at the top two buttons, paired with impeccably tailored dark trousers.

Standing directly under the severe, bright fluorescent light, he actually appeared vastly more intimidating than he had back in the dark alley.

He was absolutely not considered conventionally handsome by any standard metric.

His facial features were far too sharp and much too precisely carved from stone.

A very narrow, pale scar passed cleanly right through his left eyebrow.

His intense eyes were exactly as dark as used coffee grounds.

There was absolutely no trace of human pity or comforting warmth anywhere inside them.

There was only ruthless calculation.

"What is the total damage?" Damian asked smoothly.

He continued intensely watching Clara rather than looking over at his employed doctor.

"She has a fractured rib, several deep cuts to her mouth and cheek, and she most likely suffered a mild concussion," Hayes answered quickly.

"She desperately requires bed rest, ice packs, and strong analgesics."

Damian slowly approached the black examination chair.

Clara frantically pressed her spine backward deep into the soft leather.

He slowly raised his large right hand.

She slammed her eyes shut and flinched violently, fully waiting for a brutal physical strike to land.

Instead of a blow, two incredibly cool fingers gently touched the soft skin directly beneath her chin.

Damian firmly tilted her battered face upward toward the bright light above.

The surprising physical contact was undeniably firm and entirely impossible to escape, yet it was not actually painful.

Clara hesitantly opened her fearful eyes.

The mafia boss stood directly before her trembling form.

Being this close, she could clearly see faint, dark stubble lining his strong jaw and tiny, striking gold flecks buried deep inside his otherwise dark irises.

Her ragged breathing stopped entirely for a brief second.

Damian effortlessly possessed a truly frightening, inescapable gravity.

He certainly did not examine her bloody injuries with sadistic pleasure or elitist disgust.

He studied them exactly like a complex mechanical problem desperately requiring a logical solution.

"What is your given name?"

"Clara."

"Why exactly was Ricky aggressively kicking you in my alley?"

His tone implied a strict interrogation rather than offering any genuine sympathy.

"I owed him money."

"Exactly how much did you owe?"

"Forty dollars."

The meager amount sounded absolutely ridiculous hanging in the sterile air.

It was literally a rounding error to the wealthy man standing directly in front of her, but that tiny sum had resulted in her suffering a painfully fractured rib.

Damian’s thumb slowly passed very near the completely uninjured side of her pale face.

His smooth skin felt incredibly warm and perfectly clean pressed against her freezing, dirty cheek.

Clara visibly shuddered at the touch.

"Forty measly dollars," Damian quietly repeated.

The low number sounded utterly empty and absurd coming from his mouth.

"He stupidly risked the massive police attention created by leaving a dead body directly behind my private club over forty dollars?"

Clara simply did not know how she was supposed to answer that rhetorical question.

She remained completely still like a statue, absolutely terrified that his strong fingers could snap her fragile neck just as easily as they currently held her face.

Damian smoothly released his grip on her chin.

He pivoted his body toward Dr. Hayes.

"Wrap up her ribs tightly and give her something strong for the lingering pain."

He immediately began walking away toward the heavy steel door.

"Have Maria locate some clean clothing for her to wear."

"Wait just a minute."

The desperate command left Clara’s bloody lips before she could even manage to stop it.

Damian paused his exit, leaving his large hand resting firmly on the steel door handle.

He looked back over his broad shoulder.

The lethal warning glaring inside his dark expression was completely immediate.

"Do not dare to test your incredible luck tonight."

"Why?"

Clara stubbornly forced the single question past her suffocating fear.

"Why did you bother to bring me to your home?"

She swallowed hard again.

"If I currently owe you money for this expensive medical treatment, I absolutely cannot pay it."

"I already told your aggressive man that I have absolutely nothing to my name."

Damian turned his body completely around and leaned back against the closed door with his muscular arms casually crossed.

A heavy, agonizing silence stretched completely through the bright clinic.

"You completely misunderstand your current position here."

He pushed his weight away from the heavy door and moved exactly one step closer to her.

"You absolutely do not owe me a single cent for the cotton bandages or the luxury transportation."

His baritone voice remained chillingly controlled.

"Ricky was an employee of mine."

"He foolishly used my personal property to brutally conduct completely unauthorized side business."

Damian’s dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

"He carelessly created a highly visible mess right at my back door."

His intense attention slowly swept over her bloody, half-dressed, violently trembling body.

"I strongly dislike ugly messes and completely unfinished problems."

His voice lowered several deadly octaves.

"I also greatly dislike greedy employees foolishly believing they may behave exactly like wild animals without seeking my explicit authorization."

Damian looked directly into her terrified eyes.

"I certainly did not preserve your pathetic life simply because I pitied you."

His voice dropped even lower, becoming incredibly raw and terrifyingly absolute.

"I actually took you because you are living evidence of a massive discipline problem rotting inside my organization."

He finally pulled open the steel door.

"Until I decide exactly how I want to permanently handle that specific problem, you belong entirely to me."

Damian walked out of the room without ever waiting for her response.

The heavy door slammed closed with the horrifying, final sound of a locking prison cell.

Clara remained frozen in the leather chair while the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects.

Dr. Hayes completely silently removed a large roll of thick medical tape from a metal drawer.

Clara had miraculously survived the brutal alley beating.

However, as Damian’s parting words finally settled deep inside her mind, she fully understood the horrifying truth.

She had absolutely not been heroically rescued.

She had just been claimed as property.

Dr. Hayes officially completed the tight chest wrapping with a very sharp, loud tear of thick medical tape.

The intense compression squeezing around Clara’s battered chest suddenly made every single breath feel painfully shallow and highly deliberate.

Each ragged inhalation slammed abruptly against a rigid barrier of dull, throbbing heat.

"Take both of these right now."

Hayes casually dropped two very small, chalky white tablets directly into her violently trembling palm and quickly handed her a flimsy paper cup filled with lukewarm tap water.

"They will definitely make you sleep."

"Do not try to fight it or resist it."

His flat tone remained entirely clinical and detached.

"Your traumatized body desperately needs to immediately redirect its frantic energy away from sheer panic and firmly toward physical healing."

Clara stared suspiciously down at the completely harmless-looking little pills.

She hesitantly swallowed them down.

Their rough, dry surfaces painfully scraped against her already injured throat right before the tepid water finally carried them completely down.

The heavy clinic door suddenly swung open once again.

This time around, Damian Russo definitely did not enter the room.

An imposing older woman sporting iron-gray hair pulled back tightly into a severe knot aggressively crossed the threshold.

She wore very sensible dark trousers and a highly practical, thick gray sweater.

Deep, harsh lines covered her aging face, and her piercing dark eyes were incredibly sharp and completely devoid of comforting warmth.

Neatly folded clothing rested draped heavily over one arm.

"Maria," Dr. Hayes acknowledged her presence.

He immediately returned his attention back to the shiny sink.

"She is entirely your responsibility for the night."

"Strict concussion protocol must be followed."

"You must wake her up in exactly four hours."

Maria did not even bother to acknowledge his medical orders.

She marched directly toward the examination chair and dropped the folded clothes onto a nearby metal tray.

"Can you manage to walk on your own?"

"I certainly think so."

"Do not just think about it."

Maria forcefully extended her weathered hand outward.

"If I am forced to physically carry you down the hall, I will absolutely drop you."

It was definitely not a statement meant to offer comfort.

It was simply a statement of harsh practical necessity.

Clara weakly accepted the offered hand.

Maria’s aged skin was incredibly dry and deeply calloused, and her physical grip was shockingly strong.

Clara painfully hoisted herself out of the leather chair.

Her freezing bare feet finally touched the icy cold linoleum, and a fresh wave of severe nausea immediately rolled right through her.

She swayed dangerously on her feet and desperately grabbed the chair for balance.

"Put these clean clothes on now."

Maria shoved the folded clothing directly into her arms.

They were clearly oversized men’s garments consisting of baggy charcoal sweatpants and a thick, long-sleeved black Henley shirt.

They smelled heavily of incredibly strong, completely unscented laundry detergent.

Clara struggled to remove her totally ruined, bloody jeans with agonizing, painful slowness.

Bending down to pull the thick sweatpants upward instantly sent the horrifying sensation of a red-hot heated nail driving straight through her side.

Maria completely refused to offer any physical assistance, yet she also refused to politely look away.

She just watched with a deeply tired impatience while Clara miserably struggled her way into the massive, oversized clothes.

The fine material was actually extraordinarily soft rubbing against her highly injured skin.

It felt completely unlike the rough, inexpensive denim and cheap polyester she normally wore every single day.

It also felt completely wrong, fitting her exactly like a ridiculous costume.

"Follow me."

Maria briskly marched completely out of the clinic.

Clara clumsily followed her while tightly clutching the excess fabric of the waistband to actively prevent the baggy sweatpants from falling down.

The massive corridor lying just beyond the door was incredibly broad and very dimly illuminated.

Highly polished dark-wood floors perfectly reflected the warm amber lights strategically installed near the baseboards.

The sprawling house was completely, utterly silent.

Its heavily soundproofed stillness actually made Clara’s sensitive ears begin to ring.

They slowly passed by several securely closed and entirely featureless doors.

The smell of expensive beeswax polish and something faintly metallic heavily lingered inside the stale air.

It distinctly reminded Clara of old, dirty pennies.

It violently reminded her of the bloody alley.

Maria finally stopped walking near the very end of the long corridor, pulled open a solid oak door, and quickly activated the overhead lights.

"The private bathroom is located right over there."

"Fresh drinking water is already inside the glass pitcher."

She cast a hard look directly at Clara.

"Go to sleep."

Maria turned and left the room entirely without waiting for any words of thanks.

The heavy door firmly closed shut.

Its metal latch sounded incredibly heavy and final inside the quiet room.

Clara stood completely alone in the exact center of a plush cream-colored carpet.

This guest bedroom was substantially larger than her entire cramped apartment.

An enormous king-size bed occupied most of the lavish space, perfectly covered with slate-gray silk pillows and a thick, heavy duvet.

No personal photographs or decorative artwork marked the blank walls.

It heavily resembled an incredibly expensive hotel room meticulously prepared for a ghost.

Clara slowly approached the door and turned the shiny brass handle.

It stubbornly did not move.

She aggressively tried again using much greater physical force.

Nothing happened.

The loud sound earlier had not just been a simple closing latch.

The heavy door had definitively been locked from the outside.

A fresh spike of adrenaline pierced right through the heavy mental fog created by the strong medication.

Clara desperately placed her forehead against the cool wood and violently struggled to breathe properly.

She was literally locked inside this place.

Damian’s dark words repeated endlessly in her panicked mind.

You belong entirely to me.

Pure panic began aggressively climbing up toward her throat, but her battered body simply lacked enough remaining strength to sustain the emotion.

The heavy medication forcefully pulled her downward and tightly wrapped her frantic thoughts in thick, heavy cotton.

Her aching knees suddenly weakened.

Clara stumbled clumsily away from the locked door and nearly fell face-first onto the large bed.

The soft mattress instantly swallowed her body whole.

The crisp white linen smelled wonderfully of stiff starch and fresh, clean air.

It was undeniably the most comfortable sleeping surface she had ever touched in her life.

That specific fact somehow made it feel utterly terrifying.

Clara tightly curled onto her uninjured side and pulled her aching knees protectively toward her body.

Just beyond the reinforced glass window pane, the freezing rain struck silently against the glass.

She weakly closed her eyes while absolute darkness rapidly revolved behind them.

Clara absolutely did not pray for a miraculous rescue.

She simply prayed that she would actually wake up again.

Brilliant sunlight suddenly entered the quiet room exactly like a violent physical impact.

Clara gasped loudly and snapped her eyes wide open.

Blinding brightness enthusiastically poured right through the floor-to-ceiling glass window after the prolonged darkness of the overnight storm.

She painfully tried to sit up.

A horrific tearing pain instantly crossed the entire left side of her body.

A strangled, pathetic cry escaped her dry lips, and she fell helplessly backward against the soft pillows while desperately attempting to just breathe.