THE MAFIA BOSS: HIS ONE AND ONLY

The forest didn’t make sounds. Not real ones. Just wind dragging through dead leaves. Branches snapping like broken secrets. And the low hum of Mark Griffon’s men, pretending they weren’t bored out of their minds. “Boss said no one comes in or out till the meeting’s done,” Dante muttered, kicking a rock. “Like anyone’s dumb enough to trespass on Griffon land.” Luca didn’t look up from his phone. “Tell that to the last three bodies we buried here.” They were supposed to be on watch. Simple job. Mark Griffon was three hills over, in the old hunting lodge, doing “business” with clients who didn’t believe in cameras or daylight. The rules were clear: eyes open, mouth shut, hands to yourself. Dante had a lighter halfway to his cigarette when Luca went still. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what? Your last two brain cells dying?” “No. Breathing.” It wasn’t loud. Just a soft, broken inhale. The kind that didn’t belong to wind or animals. The kind that sounded _human_. And hurt. Both men moved in silence. Years working for Mark Griffon had trained it into them. Step. Pause. Listen. Step. Pause. Listen. The bushes were thick here. Thorn, shadow, and old secrets. And half-buried in them, like the forest had tried to hide her, was a girl. She lay on her side, knees pulled up like she’d tried to make herself small enough to vanish. Mud streaked her dress. Blood crusted at her temple. Her hair was long, dark, tangled, covering most of her face. But her lips were parted, and her chest rose in shallow, desperate pulls. “Merda,” Luca breathed. “She’s alive.” Dante crouched, careful. He’d seen a lot on this job. Burned cars. Broken bones. Men who cried before they died. But this was different. She didn’t look like a threat. She looked like a secret someone dumped and prayed no one would find. “She’s young,” he said. Then immediately regretted it. “I mean—she’s not a kid. Just… young.” Luca was already pulling out his phone. When things went off-script, there was only one call that mattered. The phone rang twice before the voice answered. Calm. Low. The kind of calm that made grown men sweat. “Report.” “Boss, we got a problem,” Luca said. “There’s a girl. In the east brush line. Unconscious. Looks like she’s been hurt.” A pause. Then: “The meeting isn’t finished.” “Yes, boss. But she’s - she’s not breathing right. And she’s bleeding. If we leave her, she won’t make it till morning.” Another pause. Longer this time. In the background, Dante could hear voices. Men in expensive suits arguing about money and territory. Mark Griffon’s world. Cold marble and colder deals. Then the line clicked. “I’m coming.” Twenty minutes later, the forest felt smaller. Mark Griffon didn’t walk like other men. He moved like he owned the air he stepped through. Black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he’d been working. His face was all sharp lines and shadow. The kind of face women called “dangerous” and men called “stay away.” At 29, he was already a ghost story in three countries. Màfia boss. No last names spoken above a whisper. But right now, he wasn't looking at Dante or Luca. He was looking at her. She was even smaller up close. Fragile in a way that made his jaw tighten. Mud on her cheek. A split lip. And that hair - it fell over her face like a curtain, hiding her from the world. For a second, no one spoke. Even the wind shut up. Mark crouched slowly. Men like him didn’t crouch for anyone. But he did now. One gloved hand moved her hair aside with a gentleness that didn’t match his reputation. Her face was pale. Too pale. But her eyelashes were dark against her skin, and her mouth - even cracked and dry - had this soft curve to it. Like even unconscious, she was trying not to cry. “She’s breathing,” Luca said, because silence was worse. “Just... shallow.” Mark didn’t answer. He just stared. Dante had worked for him five years. He’d seen Mark order hits without blinking. Seen him smile at a man’s last words. Mark Griffon didn’t do pity. Pity was weakness. Weakness got you killed. So when Mark reached out and pressed two fingers to her wrist to check her pulse, Dante almost choked on his own spit. Her pulse fluttered under his touch. Fast. Scared. Even asleep, her body remembered how to be afraid. “Get the car,” Mark said finally. Voice flat. “Boss, the meeting -” “Is over,” he cut in. Still not looking away from her. “Tell the clients my associate will finish negotiations. I have... a delivery.” Luca didn’t ask what kind of delivery. Smart man. Mark slid one arm under her back, the other under her knees, and lifted her like she weighed nothing. She was light. Too light. Like she hadn’t been fed properly in days. Her head lolled against his chest, and a soft sound escaped her lips. Not a word. Just a sound. Small and lost. And something in Mark’s chest did something it hadn’t done in years. It hurt. He told himself it was annoyance. An inconvenience. A girl bleeding on his land meant questions. Meant police. Meant messy. But his thumb brushed over her knuckles anyway. They were scraped raw. Like she’d been running. Or fighting. Or both. “Who did this to you?” he murmured. So low only she could’ve heard. Except she was unconscious. Dante opened the back door of the black SUV. Mark laid her down on the leather seat like she was glass. Then, without thinking, he pulled off his suit jacket and draped it over her. It swallowed her whole. Smelled like cologne and smoke and power. She curled into it instantly. Like her body recognized safety before her brain did. Mark got in beside her. Didn’t close the door yet. Just looked at her for one more second. She wasn’t his problem. He had enough problems. Rivals. Betrayal. A war brewing he couldn’t afford to lose. The last thing he needed was a half-dead girl with no name and no story. But she’d looked so small on the ground. Hair hiding her face like she was ashamed to exist. And when he moved her hair aside, she’d leaned into his hand. Just a fraction. Unconscious. Trusting. Trust. Mark Griffon didn’t believe in trust. “Drive,” he said. As the SUV pulled away, Dante glanced at Luca. “Boss doesn’t do rescues.” As the SUV pulled away, Dante glanced at Luca. “Boss doesn’t do rescues.” “No,” Luca agreed, watching the forest disappear behind them. “He doesn’t.” In the backseat, Fiona shifted. Her fingers clutched at Mark’s jacket like it was the only solid thing in her world. Her brow furrowed, like she was fighting something in her dreams. Mark watched her. Jaw tight. Eyes unreadable. Pity was weakness. But he didn’t move his hand from where it rested near hers on the seat. Not yet.