Bound to The Mafia Heir

Her POV  Every bad decision begins with a sound you can never take back. Mine was the crash of a body slamming into my office door. The glass rattled violently, metal shrieking in protest. My pen slipped from my fingers and clattered across the desk. I froze, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Then it happened again. A second hit. Heavier. Wet. Something slid down the other side of the door. I stood slowly, pulse screaming. It was after hours. The floor was empty. No assistants. No security. No one came up here unless they had a reason or a problem. “Hello?” My voice came out thin. A low sound answered me. Pain. Raw and broken. I should’ve called security. I should’ve backed away. I should’ve pretended I never heard it. Instead, I unlocked the door. The moment it opened, he collapsed into me. His weight slammed against my body, forcing me back a step. Warmth soaked through my blouse instantly, blood, thick and sticky. Too much of it. His breath scraped against my neck, uneven and labored. I barely managed to keep us upright. “Inside,” he rasped, his voice rough, accented, wrecked. “Please.” I dragged him in on pure instinct, kicking the door shut behind us. He sagged into the nearest chair, leaving dark streaks of blood across the leather. I reached for the light switch. His hand shot out and caught my wrist. Fast. Strong. “Don’t,” he said. His grip was firm but controlled, like he was holding back more force than he was using. “Lights make us visible.” Visible to who? Fear tightened around my ribs, but I obeyed. The office stayed dim, lit only by the glow from the hallway outside. Enough to see the damage. His shirt was torn open. His shoulder was soaked, blood running down his arm, dripping onto the floor. The wound looked fresh, angry and deep. “You’re bleeding badly,” I whispered. “I know.” No panic. No drama. Just fact. The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine. “Take off the shirt,” I ordered, moving toward my desk drawer. He hesitated for half a second, not from modesty, but pride then pulled it over his head. The sight of bare, blood-slicked skin stole my breath. Broad shoulders. Hard muscle. A body built for violence and survival. I grabbed the emergency kit I kept for late nights and clumsy interns. “This will hurt.” “I’ve had worse.” “I’m sure you have,” I muttered. He sucked in a sharp breath when I pressed the gauze to his wound. Not a cry. Not weakness. Just restraint cracking for a moment. “You’re a lawyer,” he said suddenly. “Yes.” “Not a doctor.” “Tonight I’m both.” A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth. Then it vanished. I should’ve asked questions. Demanded answers. Called someone. But every time his eyes tracked me—dark, sharp, devastating—I felt like he was anchoring himself to me. Like if I stopped, he might slip away. “Who did this to you?” I asked. He met my gaze. The look wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a truth. “Men who don’t like loose ends,” he said. A chill crawled up my spine. “Should I call the police?” “No.” The answer was instant. Absolute. “Because you’re guilty?” I pressed. “Because they won’t get here in time.” I tied off the bandage with shaking hands. “You need a hospital.” He tilted his head, studying me like prey and protector all at once. “No, I’ll survive.” Before I could respond, his head snapped toward the door. I hadn’t heard anything. He had. He stood too fast and swayed slightly. I grabbed his arm without thinking. “Sit down. You can’t—” He gently pulled free, his touch lingering half a second longer than necessary. “They’re here.” My stomach dropped. “Who?” “The ones who finish things.” He reached behind his waistband and drew a gun. Not sloppy. Not frantic. Professional. He moved to the side of the door, body angling between me and the entrance. “Stay still,” he murmured. “I’m not a child.” “No,” he said, glancing back at me. “You’re a liability.” I bristled. “Excuse me?” But the doorknob turned. Slowly. Deliberately. The door burst open. Gunfire exploded. He fired first. One man dropped before he could step fully inside. Another returned fire, bullets tearing into the filing cabinet behind me. I screamed and ducked as metal screamed back. The third man lunged. The stranger grabbed him, slammed him into the wall, and cracked the gun against his skull. Then— Silence. Thick. Deafening. My chest heaved. My ears rang. He turned slowly, blood streaking his skin, chest rising and falling in harsh breaths. His eyes scanned me, sharp and assessing. “You hurt?” “No,” I whispered. His shoulders loosened slightly. “You didn’t tell me people were coming to kill you,” I snapped. “Didn’t think they’d be this fast.” “That’s reassuring.” He stepped closer. I didn’t move. Not because I wasn’t afraid. But because something in his presence pinned me there—dark, controlled, terrifyingly aware. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “And why not?” “They’ll send more.” He stopped inches from me. For a moment, I thought he might turn and run. Instead, his voice dropped—quiet, lethal, intimate. “You should run from me,” he said. “Any sane woman would.” I swallowed. “I don’t feel very sane right now.” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Then he spoke the words that sealed my fate. “Then God help me,” he breathed, “because I’ll destroy everything to keep you alive.” And in that moment, I knew— Opening that door hadn’t saved him. It had ruined me.