The grip around my wrist felt like a steel vise. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and immediate, as Nicholas’s fingers tightened until my pulse throbbed against his knuckles.

The silence that followed Nicholas’s revelation was deafening. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside Room 412, the air was suffocatingly still.

I pressed my back harder against the wall, trying to find some anchor of reality. "If Marco wants you dead, why hasn't he killed you already? You've been lying here defenseless for half a year!"

Nicholas let out a raspy, dark chuckle that sounded like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Because killing a boss while he’s in a coma creates a martyr. It triggers an automatic war among the syndicate families. They needed me alive long enough to access my offshore accounts, my safehouses, and my logistics networks. They’ve been using my biometric clearance while I was out."

He paused, clutching his side as a wave of pain washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw trembling from the effort of simply sitting upright.

"And now?" I asked softly, stepping slightly closer despite my panic. My nursing instincts were screaming at me; his vitals were spiking, his pale skin was clammy, and he was in severe physical distress. "What happens now?"

"Now," Nicholas opened his eyes, his dark pupils fixed on me, "they’ve almost finished draining the last of my private assets. In two days, the board will recommend 'disconnecting life support' due to a lack of brain activity. Marco will sign the authorization as my legal proxy. And I will die quietly in my sleep."

My blood ran cold. "That's murder."

"That’s business," Nicholas corrected coldly.

He reached down, grabbing the IV line attached to the back of his left hand. Without a moment's hesitation, he yanked it out. Blood trickled down his skin, dripping onto the pristine white hospital sheet.

"What are you doing?!" I rushed forward, grabbing a piece of sterile gauze from the bedside tray and pressing it against the puncture wound. "Are you insane? You're going to bleed out!"

Nicholas didn't move away. He allowed me to apply pressure, staring down at my hands as I tended to him.

"You care," he observed quietly, a strange, unreadable expression passing over his sharp features. "You actually care whether I live or die."

"I'm a medical professional!" I hissed, wrapping a piece of medical tape tightly over the gauze. "I don't care if you're the Pope or the boss of the Chicago Outfit. My job is to keep you alive!"

"Then help me leave," Nicholas said.

I froze, looking up from his hand to meet his gaze. "What?"

"Help me get out of this hospital before they put me in the ground," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I need three days. Three days to reach my loyalists in the South Side and regain control of my network. If I stay here, I'm a corpse. If you help me, I survive."

"Are you insane?!" I practically screeched, keeping my voice low enough so the guards outside wouldn't hear. "I’m a twenty-seven-year-old nurse with eighty thousand dollars in student debt! I have a cat! I have a life! If I help a mafia Don escape, I’ll end up in a ditch at the bottom of Lake Michigan!"

"If you don't help me," Nicholas warned grimly, "Marco will eliminate you the moment I die. You know too much now, Clara. You know I was awake. Do you think Marco leaves loose ends? Do you think the NDA you signed was meant to protect your privacy?"

He reached out with his bloody fingers and gently touched my chin, forcing me to look at him. His touch was burning hot with fever, but his gaze was ice cold.

"The moment my heart stops, you become a liability. You die the same night I do."

A cold dread settled heavy in my stomach. The NDA. The non-disclosure agreement I had signed on my first day. I remembered the lawyer who handed it to me—a sleek man with icy gray eyes who had smiled unnaturally as I signed my name. They hadn't hired me for my credentials. They had hired me because I was young, alone, and had no family in Chicago who would ask questions if I vanished.

"You're leveraging my life," I whispered, my eyes burning with angry tears.

"I’m offering you a trade," Nicholas corrected. "Help me escape, and I will clear every cent of your debt. I will give you five million dollars and a new identity in any country you choose. You will never have to work a night shift again. You will never have to fear Marco or anyone else."

"And if I refuse?"

Nicholas leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. "Then we both die in Room 412. But I promise you, Clara... I go down fighting. Do you?"

The heavy fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, twice, and then buzzed back to life as the main power grid restored itself. The sudden white light washed over the room, exposing every detail: the blood on the sheets, the pulled IV line, and the fierce, lethal intent in Nicholas Castellano’s eyes.

Outside, heavy footsteps approached the door once more.

"Shift change in ten minutes, Nurse," a guard called out from the hallway, tapping his knuckles against the glass.

My time was up. I had to choose right now: stay a sheep waiting for the butcher, or align myself with the wolf sitting right in front of me.

I looked at Nicholas. His jaw was set, waiting for my answer.

"Five million," I whispered through clenched teeth, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. "And you promise... no innocent people get hurt."

A faint, dangerous smirk touched Nicholas's lips. "I promise nothing about my enemies, Clara. But you? You are under my protection now."

He reached out his hand. Not as a patient, but as a boss sealing a deal.

I looked down at his long, calloused fingers, stained with his own blood, and took a deep breath. I reached out and shook his hand.