Entangled With My Mafia Boss

Name: Entangled With My Mafia Boss
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

preshie

Mafia | Ongoing

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Joya's life as a humble maid takes a sudden turn when she's assigned to work for the infamous and cold-hearted Mafia boss, Christopher Dread and fear are her constant companions as she navigates the dangerous world of the mafia. But Christopher's icy exterior hides a possessive streak that she can't quite understand-yet. As tensions rise and an undeniable chemistry sparks between them, Joya is caught between her growing attraction and the looming danger of his ruthless world. Will she survive his possessive nature, or will the heat between them burn everything to the ground?

Suspense Betrayal Mafia Housekeeper Attractive Arrogant/Dominant Romance Mafia

Chapter 5 The heart breaking blame

04-08 14:00

Chapter 1 The Awakening

When I first met Mr. Christopher, he was in a vegetative state. He couldn't speak, stand, or even sit without support. The only thing he could do was blink his eyes. He would lie in his bed all day, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in his own world. It was hard to imagine what had happened to him, how someone so vibrant had ended up like this. But then again, that wasn't my concern.

My job was simple: I was to start every morning at 7 a.m. and go straight to Mr. Christopher's bedroom. There, I'd clean him up with a bowl of lukewarm water and a soft towel. The process felt like an odd routine-both intimate and mechanical. It had taken some getting used to, but I couldn't afford to overthink it. After cleaning him, I'd head straight to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. His meals were always light-pap, custard, or tea. He could still eat, though it was a slow process, one spoonful at a time. I would feed him carefully, ensuring he swallowed each bite before offering the next, watching as his hollow eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

It was a strange existence for me, caring for a man who could do little more than exist. I wondered if he ever remembered what it was like before, when he was well, when he was whole. But that thought never lingered too long in my mind-there was no room for it.

After breakfast, I'd give him his medication. It was a long list of drugs: capsules, tablets, syrups, and vitamins. His regimen was so complex it felt like a choreographed routine. I'd carefully line up each pill, making sure I gave him the right one at the right time. The sheer number of medications made me wonder how someone could fall so far from grace.

Once I'd administered everything, I'd move him into his wheelchair. This task was always difficult. Mr. Christopher weighed no less than 90 kilograms, and though I was fairly strong, it still felt like a herculean task to lift him. I'd slide the wheelchair as close as I could to the bed, then position myself behind him. With my hands interlocked on his chest, I'd gently pull him forward. He would always let out a faint breath as I maneuvered him, a sound I had grown accustomed to, but it always reminded me of his fragility. When I finally managed to settle him in the chair, I'd catch my breath for a moment.

Once secured, I would wheel him out to the balcony. The fresh air and the view of the garden were the only things that seemed to lift his spirits, even if just for a moment. He'd sit there, staring at the flowers and trees below, while I took a break. The routine had become second nature to me, and I relished the quiet moments when I wasn't looking after him.

It was then that I'd go to the kitchen to have my breakfast. The house was large, and I had learned to navigate it with ease. The kitchen was my refuge-a place to have a brief moment to myself. The cooks would always greet me with a warm smile, and I'd grab something simple: toast, eggs, or sometimes just a bowl of fruit. I'd quickly eat, knowing the day would soon be filled with tasks again.

The cleaners would take care of Mr. Christopher's room while I was eating, tidying up and organizing the space. I never felt the need to ask about his condition-they would handle it, just as I handled him. For all the time I spent in that mansion, I had grown used to its stillness, its air of melancholy. But I never thought I would grow so attached to the silence, so dependent on it.

That morning, however, the silence was shattered. I had just returned to the house, ready to continue my usual routine, when I walked into Mr. Christopher's room to find something utterly unexpected. The bed was empty. No sign of him.

Panic surged through me. I rushed to the balcony, thinking perhaps he had wheeled himself out there. But when I reached it, he was nowhere in sight. My heart raced, and I started checking the other rooms-his study, the sitting room, even the bathrooms. But there was no trace of him. I called out his name softly at first, then louder when there was no response. My hands trembled as I rushed through the halls, searching desperately.

What could have happened? Had someone taken him? Was he still in the house, hiding somewhere? My mind spun with worst-case scenarios, and I could feel my chest tightening as panic set in.

Just as I was about to go downstairs to search the ground floor, I heard a faint noise from behind me. A soft, breathy sound. At first, I thought it was nothing, a mere echo of my own frantic thoughts. But then I heard it again-a rasping, almost imperceptible whisper.

I turned around, my heart thudding in my chest. Standing by the door was Mr. Christopher, sitting upright in his wheelchair, looking at me with wide eyes. His gaze was different now-alive, as if something inside him had finally awakened.

His lips parted, and the words that came out next were a shock I could never have prepared for.

"Help me..."

His voice was weak, but it was real. The shock of hearing it left me momentarily speechless, frozen in place. Mr. Christopher hadn't spoken in years, hadn't made a sound at all. And now, here he was-alive in a way I couldn't explain.

I stepped closer, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My mind raced, trying to comprehend what was happening. What did he mean? Why was he asking for help? And how had he gotten out of bed? The questions piled on top of one another, and yet all I could do was stare back at him, waiting for an explanation that might never come.