Chained to the Mafia Godfather (Valentine’s Forbidden Deals #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Harper

This was hands down the worst Valentine's Day of my life. No contest.

While everyone else got roses and chocolates, what did I get? A gun barrel pointed right at my face.

"Hands up, fat girl."

That black hole of a muzzle stared me down, steady as death.

I didn't dare move. Slowly, I raised my hands and looked at the man across from me.

He wore nursing home scrubs, but they clearly weren't his—the sleeves rode up his forearms, exposing tattoo-covered skin, and the collar gaped open where the buttons wouldn't close. He'd given up trying to fasten them.

I'd bet my life I'd never seen this guy at the facility before.

So when the hell did I piss off someone like him?

I scrambled through the past year in my mind—up at six every morning, rushing to the hospital to see Aiden, bouncing between his room and the nursing home, dragging myself home at night to pass out.

My social circle was pathetic. Just Aiden and patients. I didn't even have time to pick a fight with anyone.

"Look, sir, I don't know you," I forced the words out, though my voice shook so badly it barely sounded like me.

"If you want money, I've got five hundred in cash—just got paid.

That's everything I have, but you can take it.

Just don't do anything crazy... I mean, killing me doesn't help you, right? "

The man snorted, clearly unimpressed. His eyes crawled over my chest with zero shame, making me feel stripped naked.

A sick mix of fear and disgust slithered up my spine.

I hunched my shoulders instinctively, trying to hide my too-curvy body—even though I'd bought my scrubs a size up, my chest and hips still pulled the fabric tight.

I'd always been ashamed of it, convinced those extra pounds were proof I ate too much.

"I don't give a shit about your money." He flashed a grin, his gaze lingering on my ass. "Nice ass though. Too bad I don't have time for that today." He licked his cracked lips. "I'm here for the old bitch. Take me to Olga Orlov."

Olga?

Olga Orlov lived in Room 302, a seventy-eight-year-old Russian woman who still carried herself like royalty.

If there was anything remarkable about her, it was her legendary bad temper.

She'd run off five caregivers before me.

Some left in tears. Others just walked out. But for some reason, she tolerated me.

Why would this man want her?

But he wasn't interested in explaining. He lunged forward and cracked the gun barrel against my forehead. Pain exploded through my skull.

"Move! I know you're her caregiver."

Fear turned my knees to water. This man wasn't joking.

Was I going to die here?

Aiden's face flashed through my mind—my sixteen-year-old brother, the kid who'd spent most of his childhood in hospitals because of his congenital heart defect. He was still waiting for me to scrape together enough for his surgery. Waiting for me to keep my promise and bring him a blueberry cake.

And today was supposed to be the day I finally worked up the courage to confess.

I'd been crushing on Olga's grandson Kirill for three months.

He visited her every week, always bringing carefully arranged flowers, charming and elegant.

We'd chatted in the hallway a few times—brief conversations, but enough to make my heart race and my face burn.

I'd stayed up all night finishing that handmade confession card, determined to give it to him on Valentine's Day.

I couldn't die here. I wouldn't.

"Okay, okay, just calm down." I raised my hands higher, trying to look harmless and stupid. "I'll take you to her. But we need to walk a bit... she's not in this building."

The man's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Olga's difficult," I swallowed hard, buying myself time to think. "A few days ago, she complained the view outside her window was boring and threw a fit about switching rooms. The director caved and moved her to the luxury suite in the back building."

I was lying.

The back building wasn't even in use yet. It was full of broken wheelchairs and cleaning supplies.

The man stared at me for a solid five seconds. I kept my face meek and obedient, trying to project helpless honesty. My body type helped—people always assumed chubby girls were clumsy and simple.

That bias usually pissed me off. Right now, it might save my life.

"Move." He finally bought it, but kept the gun pressed to my back. "Try anything, and I'll put a hole in that big ass of yours."

"Oh God, please don't. You're scaring me." I pretended to gasp, then turned toward the hallway.

It was Valentine's Day. Most of the staff were slacking off in the break room or whispering sweet nothings on their phones. This floor was practically empty. Unless a security guard happened by on patrol, no one was coming to save me.

Stay calm, Harper. Think.

Halfway down the hall, the man's radio crackled to life with a burst of static.

"How's it going? You find the target?"

The voice had a thick Italian accent and sounded impatient as hell.

"Got the old lady's caregiver." The man pressed his earpiece, lowering his voice. "Heading to confirm the target now. What's your situation?"

"Hurry the fuck up! The kid just left his office. If he shows up here, we're all dead!"

The kid?

My brain kicked into overdrive. Who were they talking about? Who scared armed thugs this badly? But one thing was clear—whoever it was, he was no ordinary person.

This was getting worse.

"Copy!" The man's voice cracked with panic. He jabbed the gun into my lower back. "You hear that? Move faster! If we don't find the old bitch, you're dying first."

Pain shot through me.

But weirdly, it cleared my head. They were in a hurry. They were afraid of someone. Which meant if I could stall long enough, maybe there'd be a way out.

First, I had to deal with the immediate problem.

Twenty feet ahead, there was a rug that didn't match the rest of the decor.

Underneath it was a hole—I'd accidentally smashed through the floorboard moving medical equipment two days ago.

Big enough to trap an adult's leg. I'd meant to report it this morning but forgot because I was swamped with work.

Now, it was going to help me.

"Faster!" The man barked again, clearly done with patience after that radio call.

Perfect. Too distracted to notice how weird it was that the rug sat there.

I sped up, casually drifting left so my toes just grazed the edge of the rug as I stepped over it.

The man, glued to my back and staring at my ass the whole time, never looked down.

"Ah—!"

He let out a short yelp as his right foot plunged through the floor. He pitched forward.

Now!

The second he fell, I exploded into the fastest sprint of my life.

"You fucking bitch!"

Behind me came his furious roar and the sound of him struggling to free his leg.

I cleared the corner in under five seconds. Thank you, adrenaline.

But I didn't stop. Didn't even dare breathe too loud. This wasn't over. I'd been ambushed—the rest of the staff had no idea what was happening.

I had to find Olga. Get her somewhere safe. Then figure out how to evacuate the other patients and workers—

"Harper?"

A sharp, distinctly annoyed voice cut through my thoughts.

I jerked my head up and saw her.

Olga stood in the middle of the hallway wearing her lavender velvet robe, silver curls pinned immaculately in place. She gripped a cane with a silver handle, but judging by how she stood, it was more accessory than support.

"I've been looking for you for half an hour." Her critical gaze traveled over her gold-rimmed glasses and landed on my disheveled face. "You know how much I hate waiting. I told you—three o'clock is my tea time. And you—"

She stopped. Her eyes swept over my tangled hair, the cold sweat on my face, the torn corner of my scrub collar.

Looking at that sharp face, I felt an absurd urge to cry.

"Olga..." I rushed over and grabbed her arm. Normally, I'd never dare—it guaranteed getting whacked with her cane. "Quick, we need to hide. There's someone out there with a gun. They're looking for you!"

Olga stayed eerily calm. She just frowned slightly, like she'd heard about an inconvenient but expected problem.

"Looking for me?" She repeated the words, her tone disturbingly flat. "Well then. We should find somewhere to hide."

I froze. How could she be this calm? This wasn't how normal old ladies reacted.

"Madam Olga, who... who are you really?"

"No time for that," Olga cut me off. "If you want to live, do what I say."

She suddenly clamped her hand around my wrist—her grip shockingly strong—and spun around with movements so sharp I doubted the "78" on her file was real.

"How many are out there?" she asked, pulling me swiftly toward the stairs.

"I don't know. I only saw one, but he was talking to others on his radio," I stumbled after her, feeling like the world had flipped upside down. "Definitely more than just him."

"Dammit," Olga muttered something in Russian I didn't fully catch, but the venom in her tone sent chills down my spine. "This is why I told Kirill not to push the business too hard. These Italian bastards are like cockroaches—can't kill them, can't get rid of them."

My brain short-circuited.

Kirill? She was talking about Kirill?

The man I'd been crushing on for three months. I thought he was just well-off, maybe a lawyer or businessman—that's why I'd dared to make that Valentine's card, dared to imagine maybe we had a chance.

But now... "push the business too hard"? "Italian bastards"? Those words belonged in movies—mafia, gunfights, drugs.

Jesus Christ, this wasn't my world. I was just a caregiver trying to save up for my brother's surgery and work a quiet Valentine's Day shift. If I'd known Kirill was involved in this kind of thing, I never would have—

"You fucking bitch—!"

A roar cut off my thoughts.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. The man had freed himself from the trap and brought backup.