I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 2

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

There was blood on my socks.

Blood. On. My. Socks.

Blood. On. My. Hello. Kitty. Socks.

And not just a little but a lot. It was dripping on my hardwood floors, smearing on my wall, and now soaking through the hem of my favorite bunny pajama shorts.

One second I was heating up oat milk for my tea, and the next he burst through my front door like a horror movie villain and slapped a hand over my mouth before I could even scream.

His hand was warm and heavy and covered in blood. So much blood. I hate blood. I hate blood.

So, I just stood there.

Frozen.

Like a badly coded NPC in a video game.

I could feel my heart thudding all the way up my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brain went into full panic-flip mode. I mentally started to recite my vegan food pyramid.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

He looked at me again and smiled? How can he smile? At this time?! Like this?! When he is injured and in so much pain.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?” he asked and his voice was weirdly hot. It was like raspy and deep and kind of rough in a way that made my knees wobble. Oh god, he was probably only talking like that because he was beat up and half delirious.

Priorities, Maddie!

Then his knees buckled and he just collapsed.

Right into me.

Like a full-grown bleeding tree.

I squeaked... like, actually squeaked, because he was heavy. And hot, like, body temperature hot. I could feel it through my shirt. That can’t be good, right? That’s bad, right? Doesn’t heat mean infection or internal bleeding or—

Breathe. Breathe, Maddie. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like yoga. You took that one class with Steph, remember? Before she bailed and said the instructor was giving cult leader vibes? Yes. Good.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, nope, nope, that’s too much blood. I think I’m going to throw up.

I gingerly slid down to the floor, knees hitting hardwood, and he sort of folded with me, like a very large, injured, possibly criminal origami swan.

He smelled like gasoline and burnt metal and something darker, like violence if violence had a scent. His blood is hot. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud... or think.

Jason would totally know what to do, he’s a surgeon, and also my best friend, and thank the stars he lives right across the hall but he’s not here, because his shift at the hospital doesn’t end for like another hour.

“Okay, Mister... dying man,” I whispered, trying very hard not to sound like I’m crying even though I definitely am crying, “you can’t die here. Not on my floor. My landlord already hates me and this would just really push things over the edge.”

I fumbled for my phone but remembered that it was charging in the kitchen. Ten feet away. A lifetime. I glanced at the door, still chained and bolted, and then at him... this stranger with blood everywhere and bruises already blooming across his face and, oh, his lashes are really long.

Why am I noticing that right now?

I crawled toward the kitchen, whispering apologies with every creak of the floorboards. “I’m just going to get my phone,” I mumbled over my shoulder, in case he woke up mid-coma and gets the wrong idea, “and maybe a towel. Or twelve.”

My knees were shaking. I slipped once on the bloody wood and let out a weird little scream, it was like half mouse, half dying balloon. When I finally reached the counter and grabbed my phone, my hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I should call 911.

Right?

No. Big fat no. Because the moment I say “a man broke in and passed out from blood loss,” I become an accessory to whatever criminal nonsense this is. And I can't get into trouble, I can't, I'm not made for trouble. I’m not going down as the girl who helped hide a wanted felon. Or a hitman. Nope.

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