She faints in a grocery store—but the mafia boss who catches her notices hidden bruises and uncovers a truth that changes everything

and art that had probably cost more than Allara’s student loans.

A woman in her sixties came from the hallway. Her gray hair was pinned in a neat bun, and her dark eyes moved over Allara’s trembling hands, hollow cheeks, and bruised throat with a kind of practiced, patient sorrow.

“This is Meera,” Nikolai said. “She’ll take care of you.”

Meera stepped continue reading …