"The Black Maid Spoke Arabic to His Dying Mother — The Mafia Boss Collapsed When He Heard Why..."

The hospice nurse's voice was gentle but firm through the phone. "Mr. Khalil, your mother's time is growing short. Perhaps a few days, maybe a week. You should come soon if you want to say goodbye."
Dimitri Khalil stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office in Boston's financial district, watching the city sprawl beneath him like a kingdom he'd built with blood and calculation. At thirty-four, he controlled the most sophisticated criminal network on the East Coast—legitimate businesses fronting for operations that moved everything from information to influence. But all that power meant nothing when death came calling.
"I'll be there tonight," he said, his voice carrying the faint accent of his childhood in Beirut, softened by years in America but never fully erased.
He ended the call and stood in silence, his reflection ghosting in the glass. Dark hair, sharp features that his mother used to say came from his father's side, and eyes the color of strong coffee that had seen too much, too young. The expensive suit, the corner office, the empire—none of it could buy him more time with the woman who'd sacrificed everything to get him here.
"Boss?" His second-in-command, Marcus, appeared in the doorway. "The meeting with the—"
"Cancel everything," Dimitri said. "I'm going to see my mother."
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Marcus nodded without question. In their world, family was sacred. "You want security detail?"
"Two men. Discreet." Dimitri grabbed his jacket. "And Marcus? Find out who's caring for her. I want background checks on every staff member at that facility. Every single one."

Cedar Hills Hospice sat on the outskirts of Boston, a converted Victorian mansion that tried to disguise death with pretty gardens and soft lighting. Dimitri walked through the entrance with two bodyguards trailing at a respectful distance, his presence drawing immediate attention from the staff.
"Mr. Khalil," the director greeted him, a nervous smile plastered on her face. She knew exactly who he was—everyone did. "Your mother is resting comfortably in the garden room. She's been asking for you."
His chest tightened. "Is she in pain?"
"We're managing it as best we can. She has good moments and difficult ones." The director hesitated. "There's something you should know. She's been speaking Arabic almost exclusively for the past week. The confusion, it's common at this stage—"
"My mother isn't confused," Dimitri cut her off, his voice cold. "She's returning to her first language. It happens."
"Of course, I just meant—we've been struggling to communicate with her. To understand what she needs."
Rage simmered beneath his calm exterior. His mother was dying among strangers who couldn't even understand her. "Take me to her."