A Poor Girl Pulled a Stranger From a Wrecked Car—Then Learned He Was the Italian Mafia Boss Everyone Feared
Part 1
The rain fell in sheets across the cracked asphalt, turning potholes into miniature lakes that reflected the amber glow of streetlights. My windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the downpour as I squinted through the glass, my knuckles white against the steering wheel of my ancient Honda.
The heater had given out halfway through winter, and my breath fogged in the cold air as I drove home from my second shift at Mercy Hospital.
Just 3 more blocks, I whispered to myself, a ritual that had become as familiar as the ache in my feet after 12 hours of running between patients. My scrubs still smelled of antiseptic and coffee, and beneath my thin jacket, I shivered. I was 26 years old, and all I had to show for it was an apartment I could barely afford and student loan payments that ate most of my paycheck.
The intersection ahead glowed red, and I eased onto the brake, feeling the familiar shudder as my car protested.
That was when I heard it.
The squeal of tires against wet pavement, followed by the sickening crunch of metal.
My head snapped toward the sound just in time to see a black SUV swerve violently before slamming into a concrete barrier. I did not think. Training took over. I pulled over, grabbed my phone and the small emergency kit I kept in my glove compartment, and ran toward the wreckage.
Rain soaked through my clothes in seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I called out, asking if anyone could hear me as I approached the driver’s side. The window was spiderwebbed with cracks, and through it, I could make out a silhouette.
No movement.
No response.
My hands trembled as I tried the door. Locked. I moved to the passenger side, and relief washed over me when the handle gave way. The interior light flickered on, revealing the driver slumped against the wheel.
Male. Maybe mid-30s. Wearing what appeared to be an expensive suit, now stained with blood from a gash on his forehead.
I told him I was a nurse and that I was going to help him. I reached across to check his pulse. Strong and steady.
Thank God.
Up close, I noticed details my first glance had missed. His watch probably cost more than my yearly rent. A gold signet ring adorned 1 hand. His cologne, despite the metallic scent of blood, smelled of cedar and something exclusive.
As I worked to assess his injuries, his eyelids fluttered. For a moment, just a heartbeat, I found myself staring into eyes so dark they seemed to swallow the light. Then, with a groan, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
I needed to get him out. Smoke curled from beneath the crumpled hood, and though the rain might keep a fire at bay, I was not willing to bet that stranger’s life on it. Ignoring the voice in my head reciting all the reasons not to move an accident victim, I unfastened his seatbelt and hooked my arms beneath his shoulders.
He was heavier than he looked. My muscles screamed as I dragged him from the passenger side, nearly collapsing under his weight as we fell together onto the wet asphalt. For a moment, we lay there, me gasping for breath and him unconscious but alive, his head resting against my shoulder.
That was when I heard the second car.
Headlights cut through the rain as a vehicle identical to the wrecked SUV pulled up. Three men emerged, all wearing suits despite the hour, all moving with a predatory grace that sent a chill down my spine. The tallest one barked something in what sounded like Italian before his eyes found me cradling the injured man’s head.
He told me to step away from him, his accent thick and his tone leaving no room for argument.
I did not move. I told him the man needed a hospital. I had called an ambulance.
No ambulance, he said. He approached, and I noticed the bulge beneath his jacket that looked suspiciously like a gun. They would take him. I had never seen anything.
Fear crystallized in my stomach. I said the man had a head injury, possibly internal bleeding. He needed proper medical care, not—
The man cut me off. They would take him.
He crouched beside us, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking from his collar. Some kind of bird. His eyes softened almost imperceptibly as he looked at the unconscious man. He promised the man would have the best care.
Before I could protest further, the injured man’s eyes opened again. This time, they stayed open, focusing first on me, then on his companion. He muttered something in Italian.
The tall man replied in English, saying she had pulled him from the car, boss. His tone was respectful but tense.
Boss.
The word hung in the air between us as the injured man’s gaze returned to me. Despite his condition, something shifted in his expression. A calculation. An interest that made my skin prickle.
He asked my name, his voice rough but carrying the same melodic accent as his companion.
I hesitated, then told him. Elena. Elena Russo.
A smile touched his lips, transforming his face from merely handsome into something that made my heart stutter. He asked if I was Italian.
My grandfather was from Sicily, I said.
Ah, he said.
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A Poor Girl Pulled a Stranger From a Wrecked Car—Then Learned He Was the Italian Mafia Boss Everyone Feared
