Entangled With My Mafia Boss

hing 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 w

ate 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.

. I wondered if he ever remembered what it was like before, when he was well, when he w

regimen was so complex it felt like a choreographed routine. I'd carefully line up each pill, making sure I gave him t

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 l

eemed to lift his spirits, even if just for a moment. He'd sit there, staring at the flowers and trees below, while I to

itchen 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 some

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 gr

ouse, ready to continue my usual routine, when I walked into Mr. Christopher's

ght. 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 ca

in the house, hiding somewhere? My mind spun with worst-case s

om behind me. A soft, breathy sound. At first, I thought it was nothing, a mere echo of m

ristopher, sitting upright in his wheelchair, looking at me with wide eyes. His

that came out next were a shock

p me

ily speechless, frozen in place. Mr. Christopher hadn't spoken in years, hadn

What did he mean? Why was he asking for help? And how had he gotten out of bed? The questions piled on top of