Page 101 of Ruined By the Mafia Kings
I stepped into her apartment, immediately enveloped by the scent of cardamom and ginger. The space was immaculate yet homey—everything organized with military precision that spoke to her former career as a hospital administrator.
Mrs. Patel stood at her kitchen counter, vigorously kneading dough with strong, capable hands. At sixty-five, she ran this building with an iron fist in a velvet glove, handling everything from minor plumbing emergencies to tenant disputes with the same no-nonsense efficiency.
“I haven’t seen you in days,” she said, eyeing me critically while continuing to pummel the dough into submission. “You’re too skinny. Not eating enough.”
“The restaurant keeps me busy,” I said, leaning against her counter. “Apparently, people really need someone to wash their plates after they eat off them. Who knew?”
She snorted, her salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled despite her kitchen activities. “That’s no excuse for not taking care of yourself. Your mother would be disappointed.”
“I wanted to thank you for all the food you’ve been leaving,” I said, carefully broaching the subject that had been bothering me. “And the flowers. It really brightens the place up.”
Mrs. Patel smiled, looking pleased with herself. “Someone has to make sure you don’t waste away. Besides, I always cook too much since Raj moved out.” Her son Raj, a burly alpha who helped with building maintenance, had recently gotten his own place across town but still visited regularly.
“The casserole yesterday was amazing,” I said. “What was in it? Because I need that recipe for when I finally achieve my life goal of being able to afford groceries.”
“Family secret,” she said with a wink, wiping her flour-covered hands on a towel. “Raj brought some groceries by yesterday. That boy buys in bulk like he’s preparing for the apocalypse. I can’t possibly use it all.”
That explained the masculine scent I’d noticed; Raj must have helped with the deliveries. The man was built like a linebacker and could probably carry a refrigerator single-handedly.
We chatted for a while longer, Mrs. Patel updating me on building gossip with the thoroughness of a professional intelligence agent. As I was leaving, she pressed an envelope into my hand.
“Your rent rebate,” she announced. “Discount because of the water issues last month.”
I frowned, confused. “Rent rebate? Is that like a tax refund for people who don’t make enough money to pay taxes?”
“Don’t be smart,” she said, tapping the envelope. “The pipes on the third floor needed replacing. Inconvenience compensation. Just take it.”
There had been some minor plumbing work recently, though nothing that seemed rebate-worthy. But Mrs. Patel ran this building like her personal kingdom, and questioning her decisions was like arguing with a force of nature.
“Thank you,” I said simply.
The envelope was heavy in my hand as I returned to my apartment. Inside, I found several hundred dollars in cash, far more than any legitimate rebate would be. Mrs. Patel was probably padding it with her own money, too proud to offer charity directly.
“Stubborn woman,” I said fondly. The kindness was appreciated, even if my pride took a hit.
The moment I opened my door, I was greeted by the now-familiar scent of Mrs. Patel’s cleaning products. She must have been in here today with Raj; the place looked spotlessly organized. Even my sad collection of mismatched dishes had been arranged by size in the cupboard.
The refrigerator was stocked with groceries I definitely hadn’t bought, premium ingredients that probably cost more than my daily wage. A pot of something delicious-smelling sat on the stove with a note in Mrs. Patel’s decisive handwriting:Heat for 5 minutes. Eat ALL of it.
I smiled despite myself. Being mothered at my age should have been annoying, but after months of looking over my shoulder, there was something comforting about having someone care enough to break into my apartment and reorganize my sock drawer.
“I should probably be concerned about boundaries,” I said to the empty room as I noticed the fresh flowers on the table. “But it’s hard to complain about coming home to food and clean sheets.”
After a quick shower, I changed into the pajamas that had been neatly folded at the foot of my freshly made bed. The sheetssmelled like some fancy detergent with hints of something woodsy, probably from Raj helping with the laundry. The man always smelled like he’d just stepped out of a forest.
I crawled under the covers, sinking into the mattress that somehow felt more comfortable than it had this morning. Had they flipped it? Wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Patel’s thorough brand of caretaking.
As I drifted toward sleep, my usual anxiety was noticeably absent. For once, I wasn’t jumping at shadows or imagining alphas lurking in every corner. Instead, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in months.
Safe.
twenty-four
. . .
The command center beneath the Trinity Syndicate headquarters hummed with activity despite the late hour. Screens lined the walls, displaying surveillance footage, data streams, and tracking information. At the center of it all, Anders Knight stood with his hands clasped behind his back, ice-blue eyes fixed on a particular monitor showing a familiar figure washing dishes in a restaurant kitchen.
“Report,” he said, his voice deceptively calm despite the way his pulse quickened at the sight of Ty’s slender form.
