Chapter 6 - A Dangerous Invitation
By Sunday night, Ryker Cross was discharged from Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital against the vehement protests of his medical team, insisting that a syndicate empire couldn't run itself while he lounged in a hospital bed eating Jell-O.
Kira figured that would be the end of it. The mob boss had settled a score, punished an abuser, forced a corrupt politician to fix a housing crisis, and ridden off into the Brooklyn sunset. Life in the ER would return to its grinding, chaotic normal.
She was wrong.
At 11:00 p.m. on Sunday, just as Kira was clocking into her shift, a sleek black town car was waiting for her outside her apartment building.
Dante was leaning against the fender, smoking a cigar that smelled like roasted coffee beans.
“Evening, Nurse Ross,” Dante said, dropping the cigar and stepping forward.
Kira stopped dead on the sidewalk, crossing her arms. “Dante. If you’re here to drop off another corrupt politician for medical clearance, my shift doesn't start for another twenty minutes.”
“No politicians tonight,” Dante replied, opening the rear door of the town car. “Mr. Cross requests your presence at his residence for dinner. To celebrate his recovery.”
Kira raised an eyebrow, staring at the open door. “Tell Mr. Cross that my idea of celebrating a recovery doesn't involve dining with mob bosses in fortified compounds.”
“He prepared the meal himself,” Dante added smoothly.
Kira blinked. “Ryker Cross cooks?”
“Italian grandmother recipes,” Dante said with a faint, rare grin. “He makes a very aggressive marinara sauce. And he said if you refuse, he’ll check himself back into the ER with chest pains just to annoy you.”
Kira let out a long, defeated sigh. She knew the man well enough by now to realize he was entirely stubborn enough to do it.
“Fine,” Kira muttered, sliding into the backseat. “But if there are dead bodies under the dining room table, I’m calling the police.”
“The bodies are buried in New Jersey,” Dante deadpanned, closing the door.
The town car sped through the empty New York streets, crossing the bridge into Brooklyn before turning down a private, iron-gated estate surrounded by towering stone walls and manicured gardens. It looked less like a criminal lair and more like a European villa untouched by the grime of the city.
When the car stopped, Dante escorted Kira up a grand stone staircase and into a sprawling, modern kitchen where the scent of garlic, basil, and slow-simmered tomatoes filled the air.
Standing by the stove in a simple black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows was Ryker Cross.
He looked entirely different out of the hospital gown. The pale, drawn look was gone, replaced by the quiet, commanding presence of a man completely in his element.
“You actually came,” Ryker said, turning around and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.
“Your bodyguard threatened to weaponize your chest pains,” Kira replied, walking into the kitchen and looking around with undisguised curiosity. “I couldn't risk clogging up my own triage unit on a Sunday night.”
Ryker chuckled, a rich, warm sound that softened the hard lines of his face. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Sparkling water?”
“Water is fine.”
Ryker poured a glass of ice water and handed it to her, their fingers brushing slightly. There was a sudden, electric jolt of awareness that passed between them—quiet, subtle, but entirely undeniable.
Kira cleared her throat, taking a sip of the water. “So. Cooking marinara sauce. Is this part of the mafia rehabilitation program?”
“This is who I am when I’m not cleaning up the city’s trash,” Ryker said quietly, leaning against the marble counter. “My father taught me how to fight, how to kill, and how to rule. But my mother taught me how to cook. It was the only peace she found in that house.”
Kira looked at him, realizing beneath the ruthless reputation, the syndicates, and the blood, there was a man who understood the profound agony of a broken home better than anyone ever guessed.
“You didn't just bring me here for dinner, did you, Ryker?” Kira asked, dropping the formal title.
Ryker’s dark eyes met hers, holding her gaze with unblinking intensity.
“No,” he admitted softly. “I brought you here because for the first time in my life, I met someone who looked at the violence in this city and didn't look away. Someone who fights for the vulnerable just as hard as I do, even if our methods are different.”
“Our methods are very different,” Kira pointed out sharply. “I use a bandage and a scalpel. You use a sledgehammer.”
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“Sometimes,” Ryker replied, taking a step closer, “the wall is so thick that a scalpel won't cut it. Sometimes you need a sledgehammer.”
The air between them grew thick, charged with an undeniable, simmering tension. Kira’s heart raced, not with fear, but with a sudden, dangerous realization that she was falling—slowly, helplessly—into the orbit of the most dangerous man in New York.
