Bound By Blood To The Mafia King

Alex burst through the heavy brass doors of The Obsidian and broke into a dead sprint.

He threw himself into the driver's seat of his SUV. The doctor's panicked voice was still echoing in his skull: "Mr. Robinson, Diana is experiencing a severe hemolytic reaction. Her organs are beginning to fail."

He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The heavy tires screamed, burning rubber against the asphalt. He blew through three red lights, dodging traffic with reckless, violent precision, tearing through the city toward the private hospital.

He sprinted down the sterile white corridor of the ICU.

Through the massive glass window, he saw Diana. Her small body was hooked up to a dozen different machines. Tubes ran down her throat. The heart monitor next to her bed was flashing red, emitting a frantic, high-pitched alarm.

The lead doctor stepped out of the sliding glass doors. His face was grim. He held a clipboard with a critical condition notice.

"We've exhausted the blood bank's supply of Rh-negative," the doctor said, his voice tight. "If we don't get a fresh transfusion in the next hour, she will not survive."

Alex lunged forward. He grabbed the doctor by the lapels of his white coat, slamming him back against the wall.

"I just brought you a donor three days ago!" Alex roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Where the fuck is the blood?!"

The doctor choked, grabbing Alex's wrists. "The reaction... it destroyed the red blood cells faster than we could pump them in! We need more!"

Alex's grip failed. He let go of the doctor. His legs gave out, and he slid down the cold wall until he hit the floor. He buried his hands in his hair, pulling at the roots.

He was cornered. There was only one person in the entire city with that blood type who was available on demand.

The woman he had told to get the hell out of his life.

His hands shook as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He opened his contacts, found the number he had blocked, unblocked it, and hit dial.

The line rang. The hollow beep... beep... sounded like a countdown to an execution in the dead silence of the hallway.

Across the city, in an old but meticulously clean apartment building tucked away in a forgotten district where tenant records were strictly off the books.

Ashlyn sat on a stained, yellowing sofa. In front of her, a high-end laptop screen glowed, displaying complex stock market candlestick charts and offshore wire transfer logs.

Her cheap burner phone vibrated on the wobbly coffee table. The screen lit up: Alex.

A cold, calculating smirk touched the corner of her lips.

She didn't reach for it. She sat back, watching the screen flash. She let it ring for ten seconds. Twelve. Fourteen. Right as the call was about to go to voicemail, she slowly reached out and pressed accept.

"Hello?" she answered, her voice perfectly flat.

Through the speaker, she heard Alex's heavy, ragged breathing. In the background, the frantic alarms of the ICU machines screamed.

"Ashlyn," Alex rasped. All of his pride, all of his arrogance, was completely gone. "Please. I'm begging you. Come to the hospital. Diana is dying."

Ashlyn reached out and snapped her laptop shut, instantly cutting off the flow of her corporate empire's data.

"Mr. Robinson," she said, her tone dripping with icy detachment. "Our contract was terminated. Remember?"

On the other end of the line, Alex slammed his fist into the hospital wall. The skin on his knuckles split open, smearing blood on the white paint.

"I'll pay you whatever you want," he gritted out, his voice shaking with suppressed rage and desperation. "Name your price. Just get here."

Ashlyn stood up. She walked over to the grimy window, looking down at the trash-filled streets below. It was time to set the trap.

"First," she said, her voice taking on a sharp, greedy edge, "I want double the monthly rate for every pint you take. Second, you come pick me up yourself."

Alex sucked in a sharp breath. He wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. "Done."

"I'm not finished," Ashlyn said softly. She dropped the guillotine. "Third. I want to move back into the penthouse. Full cohabitation until I graduate."

In the hospital corridor, Alex froze. His brain short-circuited. She had run from him in terror. She had looked at his face like he was a monster. Why the hell would she want to come back?

"What kind of game are you playing?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, paranoid whisper. "Who sent you?"

Ashlyn let out a light, mocking laugh. She played the role of the brainless, gold-digging bimbo flawlessly.

"My rent is due, Alex," she sneered. "And let's be honest. Nobody else in this city is stupid enough to pay me this much money for bleeding."

The sheer insult, the absolute shallow greed of her logic, actually made sense to him. It erased his paranoia. She wasn't a spy. She was just a parasite.

Alex closed his eyes. He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.

"Fine," he spat.

Ashlyn gave him the address of the fake slum apartment. She hung up the phone.

She immediately stripped off her comfortable clothes and pulled on a pair of faded, cheap jeans and an oversized, washed-out sweater. She messed up her hair, making herself look exhausted and poor.

Fifteen minutes later, the blinding high beams of the black SUV cut through the darkness of the slum street. The massive vehicle idled by the curb.

Alex pushed his door open and stepped out into the freezing drizzle. He looked up at the rusted fire escape.

Ashlyn walked down the metal stairs.

Alex stared at her. His eyes were completely dead. He looked at her not as a savior, but as a bloodsucking demon he had just invited back into his home.