When I Accidentally Kidnapped the Mafia Boss (Accidentally Yours #1)

Chapter 1

Elexia

If there is a contest for “Worst Tuesday in the History of Tuesdays,” I’m taking home the gold medal.

“Come on, Bessie,” I urge, turning the key again. “Just one more start. I promise I’ll buy you the premium oil next time.”

Bessie does nothing. She just sits there, dead, her battery likely having given up the ghost somewhere between the flower shop and here.

I shiver, pulling my cardigan tighter around my dark blue dress. “Great. Just amazing.”

I would call a tow truck, but I can’t afford it. Besides, my phone is dead because someone needed Buffy reruns and funny cat videos while arranging the floral displays. Charging cable? At home.

It’s fine. It’s just the first time I’ll have to jump a car in the opening scene of a B-list horror flick. The one where the rain is paid extra to look foreboding, and the girl in the pretty dress and ballet flats is the first to go.

The rain soaks through me, plastering my strawberry-blonde hair to my neck. I pop the trunk for the jump starter when a shout echoes from the side street. My head snaps up.

It’s a guttural sound, wet and painful.

Instinct, honed by years of watching thrillers where the girl who investigates the noise always dies, tells me to run. Instead, I’m peeking around the corner of the brick alcove while the audience in my head screams at me to hide in the car.

Five men in black hoodies crowd a figure on the ground, their boots connecting with sickening thuds. Slamming a hand over my mouth, I duck back into the alcove. My heart hammers like a bird trapped in a cage.

Call 911. With what phone? Bessie is dead. And if I make a sound…

The beating stops.

“Let’s go. He’s done,” one voice growls.

“Should we put a bullet in him?”

“Nah. Boss said to send a message. Leaving him to bleed out in the gutter is the message.”

Wet and heavy footsteps retreat. I wait, counting to sixty. When the engine fades, silence falls, except for the rain.

I should leave. I should walk away.

But the “caretaker gene” is a curse I can’t shake. It’s the reason I almost finished nursing school before…well, before life happened. The reverse karma shit kind of life.

I creep out, my flats splashing in puddles. The man is a heap of dark clothes and blood spilling onto wet concrete.

“Hey.” I crouch beside him. “Can you hear me?”

No answer. I turn him over, and a gasp tears from my throat.

He is…devastating. Even with the bruise blooming along his chin, the gash above his brow, and blood darkening his dark curly hair, he might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. High cheekbones. A jawline that could cut glass. Pure muscle beneath his soaked suit.

He groans. His eyes flutter open, piercing, icy blue, slicing through the dark.

“Christ,” he groans. “I wasn’t meant t’go to heaven.”

His Irish accent wraps around me like warm whiskey, traitorous heat sliding down to my toes despite the cold.

“I doubt heaven has this decor.” I glance at the wet bricks. “Dark alleyway chic with rotting garbage isn’t exactly divine.”

“You’re getting wet, Luv,” he mutters, his smile twisted and pained. “Get out of here.”

“I’ve got you,” I say, adrenaline spiking. “My car is right here. It needs a jump, but I have a starter.”

This should get reverse karma off my ass—good deed of the year award.

I don’t know how I do it. Hysterical strength is a real thing. I manage to haul him up, his arm draped heavy over my shoulders, his groans making me wince. I practically drag him to Bessie and shove him into the passenger seat.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” he mutters.

I cringe at the blood staining the tragic beige upholstery. “Getting blood out is a nightmare.”

I slam his door and pop the hood. I use the portable jumper, pray to the car gods, and turn the key.

Bessie sputters, coughs, and roars to life.

“Yes!” I hop into the driver’s seat. “Okay, don’t worry. There’s a hospital four blocks down—”

His hand, large and crimson-stained, seizes my wrist. His grip is shockingly strong.

“No hospital,” he grits out.

“Excuse me? Sir, you’re bleeding from places people shouldn’t. You have a stab wound and probably broken ribs.”

“I said,” he wheezes, his eyes flashing dangerous fire, “no hospital.”

“But—”

“Take me to a hospital,” he tightens his hold to near bruising, “and you won’t live to see another morning.”

I freeze. He reaches into his jacket, where I see the glint of metal. A gun.

Oh. My. God.

Icy fear chills my bone marrow.

“Okay!” I squeak, raising my hands. “No hospital. Message received.”

His head lolls back against the headrest. “Good…”

Any minute now, he’ll likely pass out. But somehow, he keeps a firm hold of the gun.

Taking some deep breaths, I merge onto the empty street. Great. I have an armed, incredibly hot, and probably criminal in my passenger seat. Karma must be really pissed at me.

Nana won’t believe this one.

I can’t dump him. I can’t take him to the ER.

My apartment. It’s the only option. Secluded, and I have a mini-ER in the hall closet.

Getting him into the apartment is a comedy of errors. I park in the loading zone, pray the meter maids are asleep, and haul him out. He shoves the gun inside his coat, hand lingering there as he stumbles.

“You,” I huff, draping his arm over me as we hit the elevator, “are absurdly heavy. Steel and bad decisions?”

We stagger inside my one-bedroom apartment. It’s clean, filled with a jungle of hanging pothos and ferns. He slips from my grip, landing with a thump on the kitchen linoleum. He’s out cold.

“Of course,” I pant, hands on my knees. “Of course, you had to pass out right on my kitchen floor.”

I pat him down, feeling dirty and terrified at the same time. “Where is it…?”

My fingers brush cold steel. I pull the gun out. “Ew!” Yeah. Blood and guts don’t bother me. Guns? I hold it like it’s got rabies.

Opening the freezer, I shove it behind frozen peas and Ben & Jerry’s. “Chill out. Literally.”

I spin around, my hair thwacking my face. I peel strands away.

Now, the man. I can’t leave him loose. What if he’s a serial killer?

“Restraints,” I mutter. I grab heavy-duty green zip ties from my work bag of floral supplies. Then, a blanket from the closet because I don’t want him staining my white, fluffy IKEA rug.

“Sorry, hot stuff,” I grunt, rolling him onto the blanket and dragging him to the velvet couch. I zip his wrist to the sofa leg.

He is secured.

“Okay. Now the nurse part.”

I roll up my sleeves and grab my medical kit from the bathroom—a tackle box packed with everything from sutures to saline.

I kneel beside him, scissors in hand. “Sorry. This shirt’s a casualty.” I cut through the expensive, soaked fabric. I peel it back, and my breath catches. A tremor runs through me.

His chest is a map of ink and violence. Celtic knots twist around old, jagged scars. A harp on his bicep. A skull on his ribs. It screams Irish hitman. Or gang. Or mafia.

Perfect. I drag a man off the street, and he turns out to be some Irish outlaw at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I have an entire shelf dedicated to fictional men with ink like this. I’ve pined for them. But now that one is actually unconscious on my rug?

Turns out I prefer them when they don’t point guns at me. Typical. The universe finally sends me a book boyfriend, and in real life, the morally gray guy is more likely to murder me.

“You definitely did something very naughty.” I tug my gloves on. “Good grief. I’m probably going to have to take a sick day tomorrow just to babysit your stupid ass. Why do I do this? What the hell am I doing?”

I clean the stab wound in his side. Not deep enough to hit an organ, thank God, but it’ll need stitches.

“Hold still,” I tell the unconscious man as I thread the needle. He doesn’t flinch.

I work quickly, the familiar motions steadying me. Clean. Stitch. Bandage. I check his ribs—definitely bruised, maybe cracked. I wrap his torso with Ace bandages.

When I’m done, I sit back on my heels and wipe the sweat from my forehead. He lies there, chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, bare and bandaged, looking like a fallen angel who got into a bar fight.

I gather the bloody gauze and peel off my gloves. My gaze drifts to his pants.

“Nope.” I shake my head. “I am so not giving you a sponge bath. You can sleep in your wet pants.”

I grab a throw blanket and toss it over him.

“Don’t kill me in my sleep, okay?”