The Mafia King's Secret Heiress

Rain slicked the streets of Brooklyn, turning the narrow alley into a graveyard of broken bottles and cigarette butts. The distant hum of traffic was muffled by the storm rolling through the city, but Valentina Cruz barely noticed. She tucked her soaked hoodie tighter around her and shoved her hands into her coat pockets as she strode toward the subway. Her shift at the diner had ended late-again-and her boss had docked her for a plate she didn't even break.

"Figures," she muttered under her breath. "One more week and I'm out of that dump."

She nearly tripped over a garbage bag spilling onto the sidewalk when she heard it-a groan.

Low. Pained. Male.

Valentina froze, her instincts on high alert. Her eyes scanned the alley to her left, dark and narrow, lit only by a flickering overhead lamp.

Another groan.

"Hello?" she called cautiously. No answer.

She took a hesitant step forward. Then another. That's when she saw him.

A man slumped against the brick wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent. His black shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to a muscular torso. A gash split across his abdomen, and blood pooled beneath him. His head was tilted to the side, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

"Shit," she breathed, darting toward him.

She crouched beside him, reaching for his wrist. Pulse-weak, but there. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, catching her in a hazy, stormy gray gaze that made her breath catch. Then they closed again.

"Sir?" she whispered. "Hey-hey! Stay with me."

No response.

She bit her lip. Logic screamed at her to walk away. This was New York. Men didn't end up bleeding in alleys for no reason. This wasn't her problem.

But she couldn't walk away.

She grabbed her phone. No signal. Of course. She glanced around. No one in sight.

Her fingers flew to unzip his jacket. She needed to stop the bleeding. She'd seen worse working at the diner near the docks-bar fights gone wrong, gang violence, drunks with knives. She grabbed the scarf from around her neck, pressing it hard against the wound.

"Hang in there, okay?" she whispered. "You're not dying on me tonight."

He didn't respond, but his body twitched beneath her hand.

Suddenly, headlights slashed across the alley. A black SUV slowed, stopping halfway down the street.

Valentina froze.

The passenger window rolled down. A pair of eyes locked on hers-cold, calculating, unfamiliar. A suited man in the driver's seat said something into a phone, then the car sped off.

She stared after it, heart hammering. What the hell was that?

She looked back at the bleeding man.

"I don't know who you are," she whispered, "but I think I just got myself into something very, very bad."

One Week Later

Valentina wiped down the diner counter, her mind still on the man in the alley. She'd dragged him to her apartment that night-don't ask how-and patched him up with stolen medical supplies from the back of the diner. For three days, he'd been unconscious. Then one night, he vanished without a word.

Not even a thank you.

Typical.

She'd tried to forget him. She'd tried to forget the stormy gray eyes that had burned into hers for that split second. She'd even tossed out the bloodied scarf.

But something about him haunted her.

"You've got a customer," Maria, the hostess, called.

Valentina turned-and her heart stopped.

He stood there, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, no trace of blood on his smooth olive skin. His thick, dark hair was neatly combed, and his storm-gray eyes were clear, sharp, deadly.

It was him.

He walked toward her slowly, like he owned the place. Like he owned her.

Valentina stiffened behind the counter. "You've got some nerve showing up here."

"I came to thank you," he said smoothly, his voice deep and commanding. "You saved my life."

"No kidding." She crossed her arms. "And then you disappeared."

"I had...urgent business to attend to."

"And what kind of business gets someone stabbed and dumped in an alley?"

His lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smile. "The kind you're better off not asking about."

"Right," she muttered. "So, what do you want?"

He placed a small black card on the counter. "Your name is Valentina Cruz. Age twenty-two. Lives in a fourth-floor walk-up on Fulton Street. No family. Works here six days a week. You're smart, resourceful, and reckless. I could use someone like you."

She stared at the card.

Valentina Cruz, Assistant to the CEO De Luca Enterprises

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm offering you a job."

"I'm not looking for a job."

"Not even one that pays six figures and comes with full medical, dental, and a company car?"

Her mouth opened. Closed.

"You don't know me," she said finally. "Why would you offer me that?"

"Because you didn't leave me to die. And I need someone who sees beyond money and power. Someone with guts."

She stared at him. "You're insane."

He leaned closer. "And you're intrigued."

Her heart skipped. Damn him. He was right.

"What exactly would I be doing?"

"Running errands. Managing schedules. Keeping secrets."

"Secrets?"

"You'd be trusted. Very trusted. But you'll have to earn it."

She hesitated. This was crazy. Dangerous. Probably illegal.

But six figures?

No family, no college degree, no future.

She picked up the card. "When do I start?"