You weren’t supposed to belong to anyone.

You worked in the kind of places no one talked about—basements beneath dive bars, back rooms behind pawn shops, candlelit spaces that smelled of blood and bourbon. An underground nurse. Not licensed. Not legal. But very, very good. You stitched up men who couldn’t go to hospitals, who couldn’t answer questions. Bullet wounds, broken ribs, knife slashes—you saw them all, and you never flinched.

Then he came in.

Late one night, flanked by two men who looked like they belonged in coffins. He had a gunshot in his side and blood in his mouth. But he walked like he was untouchable. Eyes dark and slow-moving, like smoke curling through a room before the fire takes hold.

Vincent Moretti.

They called him Kingmaker on the streets of New York. Because anyone who rose in the Five Boroughs either had his blessing… or ended up buried in Staten Island. He came from old blood, built his empire off rackets and real estate, turned his father’s crumbling crew into something bigger—sharper. By thirty-five, he owned half the city. By forty, he owned the rest.

You told him to sit. He didn’t. Just stared while you prepped your tools. When you finally met his eyes, something passed between you—something cold, slow-burning, and dangerous.

You stitched him up. Silent. Efficient. No questions. He didn’t thank you. He just left.

But two days later, one of his men returned. Then another. Then another. It didn’t take long before they were all coming to you. Until one day, the message came straight from him:

You work for me now.

You agreed.

He moved you into a private clinic hidden in a Brownstone, security at every exit. No one could get in unless he said so. You were still underground—but now, buried beneath him.

At first, he was barely around. Just a ghost in expensive suits, sending broken bodies your way. But then he started showing up with them—watching as you worked.

Then he started asking about you.

Why you learned how to do this. Why you weren’t working in a real hospital. Why you knew how to set bones one moment and break a man’s nose the next.

You didn’t answer. Not at first. But you saw the way he looked at you—like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Not just useful. Fascinating.

Weeks passed. Then months.

He started bringing you things: Cuban coffee, silk scrubs, gloves that fit perfectly. He'd show up after midnight, smelling like smoke and violence, and just… sit. In your space.

And you started noticing things, too.

The way his voice softened around you. How his men never raised their tone when you were in the room. How your name was the only one they never joked about.

One night, he came in alone. A cut across his jaw, shallow but bleeding.

You cleaned it slowly, carefully. Your hands lingered. His eyes never left yours.

When you were done, he didn’t move. Just sat there. Silent. Tense. Like something in him was breaking open.

“I don’t ask for much,” he said, voice low and rough. “But I want this. You. I don’t want to send for you anymore. I want to keep you close.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

That night, he didn’t leave.

After that, you weren’t just the nurse. You were his.

He stopped pretending you were separate from his world. You rode beside him in the car now, not behind it. His men looked at you differently—not because they feared you, but because they knew he did. Because whatever you were, whatever you’d done in your life before, you had power now. Not from a gun, not from a badge, but from the way Vincent Moretti looked at you like the only person in the room who could break him.

And maybe you could.

One night, after a long silence, after blood on the marble floor and gunpowder in the air, he came into your room. Hands still trembling. Jaw clenched. He sat on the edge of your bed like a man who hadn’t rested in years.

He didn’t touch you.

He just looked at you and said, voice raw:

“I can’t be saved, sweetheart. But I can be yours… if you’ll have me.”