BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE; A MAFIA SECRET

Eli's POV

The little brass bell above the entrance jingled, and I smiled bright. My cheeks actually hurt from smiling every day, but this was what I was doing.

Two women entered, as if they had just stepped out of the pages of a fashion mag, perfectly manicured nails and enormous sunglasses despite the fact that they were inside. I grabbed my notebook and moved over, tugging at the frayed edge of my worn apron.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. May I help you?" My voice was perkier than I was, as if I was standing on a thread of resolve.

One of the women looked me up and down over the rim of her sunglasses. I braced myself for a comment about the apron or the restaurant or—heaven forbid—me. It wouldn't be the first time that I'd have someone tell me that I was too white or too tired to work here. But she simply arched her eyebrows, shoved the glasses up onto the top of her head, and ordered in a short, spare voice.

I nodded, scribbling quickly. "Got it. Your food will be right out."

I turned around, glad I'd been spared at least one small embarrassment for the day. The kitchen was hot and smelled vaguely of grease that never quite rinsed out of your shirt. I slapped the order ticket onto the rack for the cook and grabbed the tray for table three.

This restaurant was not the worst job I'd ever had, but it wasn't exactly glamorous, either. Flickering plastic chairs, tables with legs that creaked beneath you, a soda machine that might spit out more water than soda from time to time. And still the individuals who shambled into this place acted as if they were having some five-star rooftop meal in Manhattan. I couldn't afford to care. I needed the work.

Actually, I required all three positions. This one just so happened to be the one least disliked by me.

I adjusted the tray and made my way to table three, placing drinks and putting on another smile. My back hurt. My feet were throbbing from being on my feet since seven a.m. My eyes stung from not having enough sleep.

I was so tired, bone-weary exhausted, that my body began to forget what resting even felt like.

"Where is my drink, busboy?" someone shouted from the far side of the room, snapping me out of my daydream.

"Yeah, and I ordered a burger twenty minutes ago!" another customer shouted.

I sucked in my lips, set down the tray, and ran back to the kitchen, praying nobody complained loudly enough that the manager heard it. I couldn't afford to get written up again.

"Slow-down in here?" I asked the line cook, who shrugged as if he didn't care.

Of course. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and grabbed the first completed plates off the pass-through window.

That was when my phone vibrated.

Grasping two plates in one hand, I wedged the phone into my ear and shoulder, already bracing myself for it to be a telemarketer or some other prior catastrophe reminder.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Winslow?" The voice sounded professional, tense. "This is Dr. Victoria from Sunnyville Hospital. It's your grandfather."

I ceased breathing.

All of me came to a stop — my lungs, my legs, my head.

"What about him?" I got out.

"You need to get here. Now."

The sentence stopped me in my tracks. Plates crashed and shattered, glass shattering on the tile floor. Someone shouted at me — a patron, maybe my manager — but I didn't think. I was already moving, yanking off my apron and pushing out the door.

The September air slapped my face, cool and slicing, as I sprinted down the block.

Please be all right. Please be all right. Oh, please, please, please.

The hospital was only three blocks from where I worked — no coincidence. I had taken the job because I could rush to Paul quickly if something happened.

And something always happened.

I shook and panted by the time I slipped through the sliding doors of the hospital. The antiseptic sting hit me, cold and familiar. This place had been my home away from home. I hated it — the beep of machines, the ultrawhite hallways, the gaze everyone gave you as if they already knew whether you'd be leaving with good news or bad.

I slid to a stop at the nurse's station.

Paul Winslow," I gasped. "Where is he?"

The duty nurse did not even look surprised that I was there. She just pointed down the hall. My legs trembled as though they were going to fall apart, but I ran until I reached the door.

Inside, my grandfather was sitting up against the thin pillows, his face pale and wheezing. Tubes had been connected to his arms and ran back to a machine that beeped quietly. His eyes flickered open at the sound of my presence.

"Eli," he croaked.

I sat down on the bed next to him and grasped his hand. His skin was too thin, too fragile.

"I'm here," I gasped. "I'm right here, Grandpa. You scared me half to death."

A small smile quivered on his lips. "Not quite done yet."

Pride burned, I swallowed the tears. Crying wouldn't do any good.

Dr. Victoria stepped into the room, her expression grave. "We've got him stabilized for now, but his lungs." She struggled. "We're going to have to alter his treatment plan. The bill is going to be more."

The words struck me like a blow. More bills. More costs. More money I couldn't possibly afford.