I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession.

- A badly coded NPC

Madeleine

𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡

There was blood on my socks.

Blood. On. My. Socks.

Blood. On. My. Hello. Kitty. Socks.

And not just a little but a lot. It was dripping on my hardwood floors, smearing on my wall, and now soaking through the hem of my favorite bunny pajama shorts.

One second I was heating up oat milk for my tea, and the next he burst through my front door like a horror movie villain and slapped a hand over my mouth before I could even scream.

His hand was warm and heavy and covered in blood. So much blood. I hate blood. I hate blood.

So, I just stood there.

Frozen.

Like a badly coded NPC in a video game.

I could feel my heart thudding all the way up my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My brain went into full panic-flip mode. I mentally started to recite my vegan food pyramid.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

Tofu. Lentils. Chia seeds. Breathe.

He looked at me again and smiled? How can he smile? At this time?! Like this?! When he is injured and in so much pain.

“You’re not gonna kill me, are you, sunshine?” he asked and his voice was weirdly hot. It was like raspy and deep and kind of rough in a way that made my knees wobble. Oh god, he was probably only talking like that because he was beat up and half delirious.

Priorities, Maddie!

Then his knees buckled and he just collapsed.

Right into me.

Like a full-grown bleeding tree.

I squeaked... like, actually squeaked, because he was heavy. And hot, like, body temperature hot. I could feel it through my shirt. That can’t be good, right? That’s bad, right? Doesn’t heat mean infection or internal bleeding or—

Breathe. Breathe, Maddie. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Like yoga. You took that one class with Steph, remember? Before she bailed and said the instructor was giving cult leader vibes? Yes. Good.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale, nope, nope, that’s too much blood. I think I’m going to throw up.

I gingerly slid down to the floor, knees hitting hardwood, and he sort of folded with me, like a very large, injured, possibly criminal origami swan.

He smelled like gasoline and burnt metal and something darker, like violence if violence had a scent. His blood is hot. That’s not a sentence I ever thought I’d say out loud... or think.

Jason would totally know what to do, he’s a surgeon, and also my best friend, and thank the stars he lives right across the hall but he’s not here, because his shift at the hospital doesn’t end for like another hour.

“Okay, Mister... dying man,” I whispered, trying very hard not to sound like I’m crying even though I definitely am crying, “you can’t die here. Not on my floor. My landlord already hates me and this would just really push things over the edge.”

I fumbled for my phone but remembered that it was charging in the kitchen. Ten feet away. A lifetime. I glanced at the door, still chained and bolted, and then at him... this stranger with blood everywhere and bruises already blooming across his face and, oh, his lashes are really long.

Why am I noticing that right now?

I crawled toward the kitchen, whispering apologies with every creak of the floorboards. “I’m just going to get my phone,” I mumbled over my shoulder, in case he woke up mid-coma and gets the wrong idea, “and maybe a towel. Or twelve.”

My knees were shaking. I slipped once on the bloody wood and let out a weird little scream, it was like half mouse, half dying balloon. When I finally reached the counter and grabbed my phone, my hands were shaking so hard that I almost dropped it.

I should call 911.

Right?

No. Big fat no. Because the moment I say “a man broke in and passed out from blood loss,” I become an accessory to whatever criminal nonsense this is. And I can't get into trouble, I can't, I'm not made for trouble. I’m not going down as the girl who helped hide a wanted felon. Or a hitman. Nope.

But I can’t just leave him here.

He said, “Please.”

He asked me not to scream, and he said please. Blood, tattoos, bruises and split skin, yes, but also a crease between his brows. A quiver in his fingers. A human. A hurting one.

And I knew that feeling. Of hurt. Of fear. Of being chased by monsters.

I wiped my palms on my thighs, which did nothing because my pajama shorts were bloody too. I tiptoed back into the room, and shared at his chest, he was breathing.

“Okay,” I said to the universe, to God, to the hot dying man on my floor, “okay, Madeleine Júlia Cordeiro, you got a B+ in first aid. You can do this.”

I scrambled to grab the first aid kit from the closet because, yes, I do keep it fully stocked, thank you very much. Some girls collect shoes. I collect trauma gauze. You never know when your rescue possum might slice a toe.

But halfway back across the room, arms full of peroxide and gauze and that one antibiotic cream that smells like sour lemons, he shifted. Twitched, really and then groaned.

“...No hospitals...” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice was so pain filled, “Please... no hospitals... they’ll find us... kill us...”

I froze.

The peroxide slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a thunk.

Kill us?

I blinked.

Kill us?

And then I panicked.

Why us?

I think he means, they might kill him, not me, right? Right?!

My chest squeezed and my hands went cold. My lungs forgot how to breathe properly, the way they do when I think about car crashes or open flames or my father’s face when he came home from fights that I wasn’t supposed to ask about.

He was still mumbling under his breath. I inched back until my shoulders hit the kitchen counter, arms hugging the first aid kit to my chest.

“They,” I whispered, “Who’s they? What is this? Why are men chasing you? Why did you have to pick my apartment? I live alone. I have a cat. His name is Flan. He hides in the toaster box when strangers knock. He can’t handle this either!”

I took a breath, gathered all the courage I could and crawled toward him again. Slower this time, like I would with a wounded dog.

“No hospitals,” I whispered, repeating his words like a promise. “Okay. Fine. No hospitals. But I am helping you. That’s non-negotiable.”

I peeled his shirt off as gently as I could. It was soaked in blood. His skin underneath was hot to the touch, too hot. Infection was coming, I could feel it. And I might hate violence, and I might be scared out of my flipping mind, but I know what sepsis looks like. And this man wasn’t dying in my apartment, not on my watch, not if I could stop it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I rolled up my sleeves, tied my hair back, and got to work.

“You’re lucky, mister, that I know how to thread a needle. My mom used to say every woman should know how to cook, sew, and stitch. I only ever got good at one of those, and it wasn’t sewing. Sorry in advance if this hurts. Deep breaths, Maddie, deep breaths... we can panic later.”

His whole chest was filled with cuts, and smudged blood. A bullet wound in his shoulder, swollen and ugly. I could see where it grazed the flesh, but not deep enough to be fatal. Still, infection, blood loss, shock... all real risks.

I chewed my lip. “Mama would tell me to pour sugar on it,” I said, half to myself, half to him, “but I think you need saline and prayers more than kitchen remedies right now.”

I cleaned, stitched, bandaged. My hands shook but I did it. Clean, cut, compress. Just like Papa's old accident, except infinitely worse.

I wiped sweat off my brow with my forearm. I’d seen wounded animals look like this. Cornered, bleeding, terrified. And he was human, yes but there was something wild in his face even when he was unconscious. Like a wolf, maybe. Something that didn’t belong in the middle of my tiny Chicago apartment surrounded by my plants and tea towels and my faint scent of lavender and lemongrass.

“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered, “or what you’re running from... but I hope... I hope you make it.”

I sat back on my heels. The towels were soaked red. The bandages were holding. He hadn’t stirred.

Somehow, against all logic, all panic, all everything, I’d managed to keep him alive until Jason gets here.

Just hold on, stranger. Just hang in there for a little longer. Jason will know what to do. He has fancy tools and calm hands and degrees and stuff. I’m just a girl with old sewing needles, way too many herbal teas, and exactly zero experience saving strangers from... whatever this is.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was going wild. I could feel it thudding everywhere, in my throat, in my fingertips, in my toes.

“You’re okay,” I whispered to myself, “You’re okay. He’s okay. Jason will be home soon. And I didn’t faint. That’s already a win.”

I gave a nervous, watery laugh.

Then I leaned down, gently, just to listen closer to his breathing. It was faint but it was still there.