Entangled With My Mafia Boss

When I first met Mr. Christopher, he was in a vegetative state. He couldn't speak, stand, or even sit without support. The only thing he could do was blink his eyes. He would lie in his bed all day, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in his own world. It was hard to imagine what had happened to him, how someone so vibrant had ended up like this. But then again, that wasn't my concern.

My job was simple: I was to start every morning at 7 a.m. and go straight to Mr. Christopher's bedroom. There, I'd clean him up with a bowl of lukewarm water and a soft towel. The process felt like an odd routine-both intimate and mechanical. It had taken some getting used to, but I couldn't afford to overthink it. After cleaning him, I'd head straight to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast. His meals were always light-pap, custard, or tea. He could still eat, though it was a slow process, one spoonful at a time. I would feed him carefully, ensuring he swallowed each bite before offering the next, watching as his hollow eyes remained fixed on some distant point.

It was a strange existence for me, caring for a man who could do little more than exist. I wondered if he ever remembered what it was like before, when he was well, when he was whole. But that thought never lingered too long in my mind-there was no room for it.

After breakfast, I'd give him his medication. It was a long list of drugs: capsules, tablets, syrups, and vitamins. His regimen was so complex it felt like a choreographed routine. I'd carefully line up each pill, making sure I gave him the right one at the right time. The sheer number of medications made me wonder how someone could fall so far from grace.

Once I'd administered everything, I'd move him into his wheelchair. This task was always difficult. Mr. Christopher weighed no less than 90 kilograms, and though I was fairly strong, it still felt like a herculean task to lift him. I'd slide the wheelchair as close as I could to the bed, then position myself behind him. With my hands interlocked on his chest, I'd gently pull him forward. He would always let out a faint breath as I maneuvered him, a sound I had grown accustomed to, but it always reminded me of his fragility. When I finally managed to settle him in the chair, I'd catch my breath for a moment.

Once secured, I would wheel him out to the balcony. The fresh air and the view of the garden were the only things that seemed to lift his spirits, even if just for a moment. He'd sit there, staring at the flowers and trees below, while I took a break. The routine had become second nature to me, and I relished the quiet moments when I wasn't looking after him.

It was then that I'd go to the kitchen to have my breakfast. The house was large, and I had learned to navigate it with ease. The kitchen was my refuge-a place to have a brief moment to myself. The cooks would always greet me with a warm smile, and I'd grab something simple: toast, eggs, or sometimes just a bowl of fruit. I'd quickly eat, knowing the day would soon be filled with tasks again.

The cleaners would take care of Mr. Christopher's room while I was eating, tidying up and organizing the space. I never felt the need to ask about his condition-they would handle it, just as I handled him. For all the time I spent in that mansion, I had grown used to its stillness, its air of melancholy. But I never thought I would grow so attached to the silence, so dependent on it.

That morning, however, the silence was shattered. I had just returned to the house, ready to continue my usual routine, when I walked into Mr. Christopher's room to find something utterly unexpected. The bed was empty. No sign of him.

Panic surged through me. I rushed to the balcony, thinking perhaps he had wheeled himself out there. But when I reached it, he was nowhere in sight. My heart raced, and I started checking the other rooms-his study, the sitting room, even the bathrooms. But there was no trace of him. I called out his name softly at first, then louder when there was no response. My hands trembled as I rushed through the halls, searching desperately.

What could have happened? Had someone taken him? Was he still in the house, hiding somewhere? My mind spun with worst-case scenarios, and I could feel my chest tightening as panic set in.

Just as I was about to go downstairs to search the ground floor, I heard a faint noise from behind me. A soft, breathy sound. At first, I thought it was nothing, a mere echo of my own frantic thoughts. But then I heard it again-a rasping, almost imperceptible whisper.

I turned around, my heart thudding in my chest. Standing by the door was Mr. Christopher, sitting upright in his wheelchair, looking at me with wide eyes. His gaze was different now-alive, as if something inside him had finally awakened.

His lips parted, and the words that came out next were a shock I could never have prepared for.

"Help me..."

His voice was weak, but it was real. The shock of hearing it left me momentarily speechless, frozen in place. Mr. Christopher hadn't spoken in years, hadn't made a sound at all. And now, here he was-alive in a way I couldn't explain.

I stepped closer, my breath coming in shallow gasps. My mind raced, trying to comprehend what was happening. What did he mean? Why was he asking for help? And how had he gotten out of bed? The questions piled on top of one another, and yet all I could do was stare back at him, waiting for an explanation that might never come.

"Somebody help!!" I yelled, my voice shaking with fear. I grasped his head, my mind reeling with panic. I fumbled for my phone, dialing the house manager as my eyes fixed on Mr. Christopher's pale face. "Please come quickly!" I begged, my voice trembling.

I pressed my hand against Mr. Christopher's forehead, his skin unnervingly cold, as if all the warmth had been drained from him. His chest barely rose with each shallow breath, and I could see the rapid flicker of panic in his usually composed eyes. I couldn't breathe. The weight of the moment felt too heavy for my lungs to bear.

"Please... please, don't leave me." The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, though I wasn't sure if I was speaking to him or to myself. My fingers shook violently as I held the phone to my ear, waiting, praying for someone to answer. The line was silent, the seconds stretching endlessly between each ring. Every part of me screamed for help, but all I had was this awful, suffocating quiet.

The house was usually so still, but now it felt like the walls were closing in on me. The soft tick of the clock on the wall echoed like a countdown, reminding me of every second I had wasted. It seemed absurd that the most powerful man in this house, the man who commanded respect, was reduced to this fragile state. His strength, usually so unyielding, was nowhere to be found now.

I could see the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his lips trembled slightly as if trying to form words, but nothing came. His usual confidence, the aura that surrounded him like a thick fog, was replaced with vulnerability. He wasn't the towering figure of authority anymore. He was just a man-scared and dying in front of me.

The phone clicked in my ear, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

"Joya?" The voice on the other end was gruff, but there was an edge of concern in it that made my heart skip a beat.

"It's Mr. Christopher... He's not-he's not breathing properly, and his face-it's so pale. I-I don't know what happened. Please, you have to come. Please!" I could barely get the words out fast enough. My throat felt thick, my pulse rushing in my ears. My hand slid from his forehead to his shoulder, gripping him as if that could hold him here, keep him from slipping away.

"I'm on my way, Anna. Don't leave him. Don't let him-" The line cut out abruptly, and my heart dropped into my stomach.

I looked back at Mr. Christopher, whose eyes were flickering, but his gaze seemed unfocused, like he was staring through me. His hand lay limp beside him, and I instinctively reached down, clutching it, squeezing as if that could anchor him to this world. The warmth of his skin was gone, replaced by an unsettling chill.

"Mr. Christopher... Please." I had to fight to steady my voice, my panic threatening to choke me. "Stay with me. You can't-" I bit my lip, swallowing hard against the surge of fear that threatened to overwhelm me.

I couldn't lose him. Not now. Not like this.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to steady myself. My whole body trembled as I held onto him, the small movements of his chest almost imperceptible, but still there. He was still with me, still fighting. I couldn't afford to break. Not when he needed me. I had to keep going.

The room felt colder somehow, though I knew the heat was still on. The silence was suffocating, the minutes dragging on like hours. I should have done something sooner. I should have noticed the signs-something, anything that could have warned me this was coming. I hadn't.

"Please..." The word slipped out again, quieter this time, more desperate, but still pleading. I wasn't even sure what I was asking for anymore. A miracle? His recovery? His strength? I couldn't tell.

I tried to steady my breathing, my mind racing for anything else I could do. Should I try CPR? No, I didn't know how. I wasn't trained, and what if I made it worse? No, I couldn't risk it. All I could do was wait.

His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, I thought he might speak, but the words never came. Instead, his breath seemed to catch, his body shuddering slightly as if he was struggling to take another one.

My grip tightened on his hand, my fingers pressing into his palm as I whispered his name, trying to anchor him, trying to remind him that he wasn't alone.

"Mr. Christopher, please. Please, don't do this. Don't leave me like this." The tears came before I could stop them, falling freely down my cheeks. I didn't care anymore. I couldn't hold it together. Not with him like this.

I leaned closer, pressing my forehead to his, the soft rhythm of his breathing the only thing grounding me. I could feel his warmth fading, slipping through my fingers like sand. His hand, once strong and commanding, now felt frail in mine. I wasn't ready for this. Not when we hadn't even... *finished* the things we started.

The room remained eerily still, and I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my chest. I willed him to speak, to move, to show any sign that he wasn't slipping away, but there was nothing. The seconds stretched on, each one a cruel reminder that we were trapped here, unable to escape this suffocating silence.

And then, the door creaked open.

I looked up sharply, my breath catching in my throat, it was the house manager, but he wasn't alone.

The door flung open, and two hefty guards, along with the house manager, rushed to the balcony. They carried Mr. Christopher out, his body limp between them. I stumbled behind, my heart racing, the chill in my spine crawling upward. The house manager was frantic, constantly asking questions, demanding answers I didn't have. "What happened?" he barked. "What did you give to him? What was in his food?" His words felt like whips lashing at my chest.

I struggled to form any coherent reply. The world seemed to spin around me, the air growing thick with panic. My mind couldn't focus. Was this real? Was this really happening?

"Sir, I... I didn't give him anything... except his usual routine," I stammered, my voice breaking. My heart hammered in my chest as I desperately tried to recall everything I had done that morning. I had served him the usual breakfast-custard. Then, I gave him his medication. That was it. That was all. But the way the house manager was looking at me-like I was guilty of something-made me question if I had missed something, anything. Could I have done something wrong? Could I have hurt him without even knowing?

My breath hitched. I wasn't sure if I was scared because Mr. Christopher might die, or because I feared being arrested for something I had no control over. As much as my heart wanted him to be okay, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered, *What if they blame you?*

We reached the hospital at 10:31 a.m., the time etched into my mind as the most crucial moment of my life. I had no idea how this was all going to unfold. Mr. Christopher was rushed into one of the private rooms in the VIP ward. It was his family's hospital, so the doctors were familiar with his condition. But familiarity couldn't help me now. The door slammed shut behind them, and suddenly, I was left in the cold hallway, the house manager standing stiffly beside me.

The hours dragged on like a torturous loop. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't stop thinking. The house manager sat across from me, his eyes constantly darting to my face. His gaze was cold, sharp, accusing. I couldn't help but feel the weight of his stare. Each moment that passed without a word felt like a countdown. My chest tightened with every tick of the clock, and the air around me seemed to press in, suffocating me. Every time the door to Mr. Christopher's room opened, I flinched. But no one came to tell me anything. I prayed, over and over, begging God to spare him, praying that I hadn't somehow played a part in whatever had happened to him.

I kept thinking about my life-how I had ended up here. A young woman with big dreams, but stuck in this moment, paralyzed by fear. Back home, my mother depended on me. She was just a petty trader, scraping by every day. My younger brother was still in school, struggling to make something of himself. They needed me, and I couldn't afford to fail them. I had worked so hard to secure this job, hoping it would be the breakthrough I needed. I had no other choice but to hold on to this opportunity, and yet, now, it was all slipping through my fingers like sand.

I tried to steady my breathing, but nothing seemed to work. My mind raced as the minutes stretched into hours. How had I gotten here? How had everything become so tangled? The guilt gnawed at me. The house manager's silent accusations weighed heavy on me. I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve the suspicion.

But still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible. *What if I had made a mistake? What if I gave him the wrong dosage of his medication?* The thought was like a knife twisting in my gut, making my stomach churn with dread. *What if this was all my fault?*

The silence in the hallway was broken by the sharp click of shoes on the polished floors. A group of doctors and nurses emerged from the room. I stood up immediately, my heart thundering in my chest. I moved toward them, desperate for any news, but the look on their faces stopped me cold. The house manager had already caught up with me, his face tight with anxiety.

"He fell into a coma," one of the doctors said, his voice grave. "We did everything we could to stabilize him, but his condition is critical. It's a 50/50 chance. We'll have to wait and see."

A wave of dizziness washed over me. I couldn't breathe. The words seemed to hang in the air, spinning around me, refusing to sink in. A coma. He was in a coma. A 50/50 chance. My mind couldn't make sense of it.

"Oh no..." The words barely left my lips before my knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the nearest chair. My vision blurred, and I felt a hot rush of tears that I couldn't hold back. My hands shook as I wiped my face, trying to regain some control over the chaos inside me. *What did I do wrong? Why was this happening?*

The house manager stood over me, his expression unreadable. He didn't speak. There was nothing he could say that would make this better.

I wasn't sure how much time passed. The doctors went back inside, the door sliding shut behind them. The room seemed smaller, suffocating. I could feel my chest tightening again. *Please, God, please let him wake up. Please don't let me lose everything I've worked for.*

I was just a girl, trying to make ends meet. But now, I wasn't sure what would be left if Mr. Christopher didn't pull through. The house manager's cold silence was unbearable. What did he think of me now? Would he believe I had nothing to do with it? Would anyone? I closed my eyes, trying to block out the thoughts that threatened to consume me.

I couldn't lose everything. Not now. Not when I was so close to finally having something I could call my own.