The fluorescent lights of Chicago General’s break room flickered faintly, casting a sterile glow over the worn linoleum and mismatched chairs. Sayrn Sauns sat at the table, her chestnut hair pulled into a messy bun, her scrubs creased from a grueling shift. At twenty-eight, with her RN degree freshly earned this year, she was used to the ER’s relentless pace—stitching wounds, stabilizing patients, keeping her cool under pressure. But today, her mind was a storm, replaying the night she’d spent with Daniel Isiah—his touch, his voice, the shower that had left her trembling in ways the ER never could.
It was two days after their rooftop meeting, where the tension between them had erupted into an intimate moment that still made her cheeks burn. Daniel, thirty-five, the mafia boss who’d carved
