No Nurse Lasted a Week with the Ruthless Mafia Boss — Until the Poor Nurse Broke the Rules
Survival of the First Hour
Violet worked quickly. She cleaned the wound, changed the dressing, and checked his IV line.
He watched her the entire time, his gaze heavy and unsettling. He was waiting for her hands to shake; he was waiting for her to fumble.
She didn’t.
“You’re done,”
he said when she taped the final gauze.
“Now leave.”
“Not yet,”
Violet said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a syringe.
“Time for your antibiotic and a sedative. You need sleep.”
“I don’t sleep,”
Dante said.
“And I don’t take sedatives. They make me dull.”
“You heal when you sleep. It’s biology, not a negotiation.”
She prepped the needle. Dante’s hand moved to the nightstand again, but this time he didn’t reach for the glass.
He opened the drawer. Violet saw the glint of steel: a gun.
He didn’t point it at her, but he laid his hand on it, a clear warning.
“I said, ‘No drugs.’ Leave the room, nurse, or Vance will be calling your next of kin.”
Violet paused. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
This was it. This was why the other nurses ran.
The threat of violence was real. He was a mob boss, a killer.
But then she thought of Toby. She thought of the final notice letters.
Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Violet took a step closer to the bed.
She leaned down, bringing her face inches from his.
“Go ahead,”
she whispered.
“Pull it.”
Dante froze.
“If you shoot me, you’ll bleed out before the ambulance gets past your security,”
Violet said, her voice trembling slightly but her gaze firm.
“Your wound is infected, Mr. Moretti. You’re septic. If you don’t take these antibiotics and sleep, you’ll be dead in 48 hours.”
“So you have a choice. You can be the big bad wolf and die in your expensive sheets, or you can let me save your life so you can go back to terrorizing Chicago next week.”
She held the syringe up.
“Your call, boss.”
A Dangerous Trust
Dante looked at the gun. He looked at the needle.
Then he looked at Violet for a long, agonizing minute. The room was silent.
Slowly, Dante took his hand off the gun. He closed the drawer.
He rolled up his sleeve, exposing a muscular forearm covered in tattoos.
“If you miss the vein,”
he warned,
“I throw you out myself.”
“I never miss,”
Violet said.
She administered the shot. Within minutes, Dante’s eyes grew heavy.
The tension in his shoulders dropped as he drifted off. He mumbled something that sounded like,
“Crazy… she’s crazy.”
Violet exhaled, her knees finally shaking. She slumped into the chair in the corner of the room.
She had survived the first hour. Only 167 hours to go.
The next two days passed in a blur of tension and sterile silence. Violet established a routine: check vitals, administer meds, change dressings, and dodge Dante’s verbal bullets.
He was a terrible patient—restless, commanding, and perpetually suspicious. He slept in twenty-minute bursts, always waking up with a start, his hand instantly reaching for the gun in the nightstand.
The West Shipment Conflict
By Wednesday evening, the storm outside had cleared, but the atmosphere inside the penthouse was heavier than ever. Violet was in the kitchen preparing a nutrient-dense broth because Dante refused to eat solid food, claiming it slowed him down.
As she chopped parsley, she heard voices raised in the study down the hall.
“It’s a setup, Dante! You know it is!”
The voice belonged to Arthur Vance.
“I don’t care,”
Dante’s voice replied, weaker than usual but still laced with steel.
“If Silas thinks he can take the West shipment just because I’m bleeding, he’s dead. I’m going to the meeting tonight.”
Violet froze. “Meeting tonight.”
The man could barely walk to the bathroom without gripping the wall. If he went out into the cold Chicago night to meet a rival, his stitches would tear and sepsis would finish what the bullet started.
She abandoned the soup and marched down the hall. She didn’t knock; she pushed the heavy oak doors open.
The study was a war room. Monitors lined the walls, displaying live feeds of shipping docks, warehouses, and street corners.
Dante was standing, barely, by the desk, gripping the edge of the mahogany surface until his knuckles were white. He was dressed in a black dress shirt that was unbuttoned, revealing the fresh bandages.
Vance stood opposite him, looking exasperated. Both men stopped and stared at her.
“I didn’t call for you,”
Dante said, his voice low.
“I heard you’re planning a field trip,”
Violet said, crossing her arms.
“You’re not going.”
Dante let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“Excuse me?”
“Your white blood cell count is still elevated. You’re on heavy painkillers. If you stand up for more than ten minutes, you get dizzy.”
“You’re not going to a meeting. You’re going back to bed.”
The Strength to Care
Dante pushed himself off the desk, swaying slightly. He took a step toward her, using his height to intimidate.
“This isn’t a medical decision, Nurse Sterling. It’s business. If I don’t show my face, my enemies will think I’m dying. And if they think I’m dying, they attack. My men die. My city burns. Do you understand?”
“I understand that if you go out there, you will die,”
Violet countered, not backing down.
“And then your city burns anyway. Send Vance. Send a proxy. Use a video call. But you are not leaving this tower.”
“You are an employee!”
Dante roared, the sudden exertion making him wince. He grabbed his side, his face paling.
“You do not give orders here!”
“I do when your stupidity threatens my patient!”
Violet shouted back. The room went deadly silent.
Vance looked between them, eyes wide. Nobody yelled at Dante Moretti.
Dante stared at her, breathing hard. The pain was evident in the tight lines of his face.
He looked at the monitors, then back at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes—not fear of him, but fear for him.
It was a look he hadn’t seen in a long time, maybe ever.
“Get out,”
he whispered.
“Dante—”
Vance started.
“Everyone out!”
Dante bellowed. Violet turned on her heel and left, her heart pounding.
A Price for Everything
She retreated to her small guest room, shaking. She had pushed too far.
He was going to fire her. She’d lose the $50,000. Toby would lose his treatment.
She sat on the edge of the bed, putting her head in her hands. An hour later, there was a knock on her door.
It was Vance.
“Pack your bags?”
Violet asked, her voice dull.
“No,”
Vance said, a strange expression on his face.
“He wants you to change his dressing. He tore a stitch shouting at you.”
Violet grabbed her kit and rushed back to the master bedroom. Dante was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking defeated.
His shirt was off, and a small bloom of red was staining the white gauze. He didn’t look at her as she entered.
“I’m sorry,”
Violet said softly, kneeling beside him to inspect the wound.
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“You were right,”
Dante grunted. It sounded like the words caused him physical pain to say.
“I almost passed out trying to put on my jacket.”
Violet worked in silence, cleaning the fresh blood. The proximity was overwhelming.
She could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled of sandalwood and danger.
“Why do you care?”
Dante asked suddenly. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching her face.
“It’s just a paycheck. If I die, you still get paid. Hell, Vance would probably give you a bonus for saving him the trouble of burying me later.”
“I took an oath,”
Violet said, applying fresh tape,
“to do no harm. Letting you kill yourself is harm.”
“That’s a pretty lie,”
Dante said. He reached out, his rough fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The touch was electric. Violet froze.
“But everyone has a price, Violet. What’s yours? Why are you really here?”
“I need the money,”
she admitted, her voice trembling.
“My brother. He’s sick. Cystic fibrosis. The bills are suffocating.”
Dante’s hand lingered near her face for a second longer than necessary before dropping away. His expression hardened, the mask slipping back into place.
“Go to sleep, Violet. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
