His fiancée could barely look at the paralyzed mafia boss she was supposed to marry, but every morning, one humble maid treated him like a king—and slowly uncovered the man everyone else had already abandoned.

The sudden plunged darkness felt like a physical blow.

In the pitch-black bedroom, the rustle of silk sheets and the harsh, heavy rasp of breath were the only sounds slicing through the suffocating quiet. Before Elena could even gasp, a strong, heavy hand clamped over her forearm. Despite his paralyzed lower body, Vincent Corvino’s upper body strength was formidable—a remnant of years built on ruthless violence, exercise, and survival.

He yanked her down toward the side of the bed. Elena stumbled, her knee hitting the plush rug, her shoulder pressing directly against his broad chest.

“Don’t move,” Vincent breathed into her ear, his voice barely a shadow of sound. “Don’t utter a single breath.”

Beyond the heavy mahogany door, the floorboards groaned softly under a deliberate, agonizingly slow weight. Someone was standing right in the doorway, listening. The knob didn't turn, but the silence outside was heavy, charged with murderous intent.

Elena’s heart hammered violently against her ribs. She could smell the scent of woodsmoke, expensive leather, and clean rain clinging to Vincent. In the dark, she felt his arm wrap around her back, locking her against him, shielding her body with his own. If an assassin burst through that door, Vincent was positioning himself as her human shield—a paralyzed man protecting a maid.

For a long, agonizing minute, nobody moved. Elena barely dared to expand her lungs. She felt the steady, calm rhythm of Vincent’s heartbeat under her palm, remarkably composed despite the terrifying stakes.

Then, the floorboard creaked again. Footsteps retreated down the long, carpeted hall, fading into the grand cavern of the Corvino estate.

The emergency back-up generator kicked in with a low, hummed groan. Warm golden light flooded the room once more.

Vincent released his grip on Elena immediately. She fell back slightly, panting, looking up at him from her knees on the rug.

Vincent was sitting up against his headboard, his pale face carved from marble, his dark eyes sharp enough to cut glass. He still looked like a titan—broken at the waist down, perhaps, but possessing a mind and spirit that could crush mountains.

“Give me the paper,” he commanded quietly.

Elena reached into her apron pocket, her hand trembling slightly, and handed him the small crumpled slip she had retrieved from under his bed.

HE DIDN'T PARALYZE YOU BY ACCIDENT.

Vincent stared at the ink. His jaw tightened so hard the muscle flexed beneath his tan skin. He crumpled the paper in his fist, crushing it until his knuckles turned pure white.

“Who was outside?” Elena whispered, standing up and smoothing down her black uniform apron. “Was it one of the bodyguards?”

“No,” Vincent said, his deep voice cold as steel. “The guards wear tactical boots. Those were hard-soled dress shoes. Leather.”

Elena’s mind raced through the roster of the mansion’s residents. His younger brother and underboss, Marco Corvino. His chief physician, Dr. Grayson. Or perhaps...

“Isabella,” Elena murmured.

Vincent’s dark gaze met hers. “My fiancée wears heels. Even in the dead of night, she wouldn't walk without them. It wasn't her.”

“Then it’s Marco. Or Dr. Grayson.” Elena felt a chill creep up her spine. “Mr. Corvino, if someone in this house tried to kill you—if someone made sure you stayed in that chair—you aren't safe here.”

“I’ve known I wasn't safe since the night three bullets hit my spine six months ago,” Vincent said coldly. He leaned forward, resting his powerful forearms on his useless thighs. “What I didn't know was that they left evidence behind. And now, because you picked up that piece of paper, you’re in their crosshairs too.”

Elena took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. She was twenty-six, orphaned at sixteen, and had worked backbreaking jobs her entire life to survive in this city. She was no fragile flower.

“I’m not running, Mr. Corvino,” she said firmly. “I picked up the paper. I’m already in it. And quite frankly, I’d rather help the man who tried to shield me in the dark than run back out into the cold.”

Vincent looked at her for a long, silent moment. For months, the people around him had treated him like a rotting corpse—either weeping over him, pitying him, or waiting for him to hurry up and die so they could divide his empire. But this maid, with her clear hazel eyes and simple linen apron, stood before him without a trace of pity or fear.

“Why?” Vincent asked softly. “Why stay for a man who can’t even walk you to the door?”

Elena stepped closer to his bed, picked up the glass of water she had brought him, and set it carefully on his nightstand.

“Because I saw your hand move tonight, Mr. Corvino,” she said in a quiet, unwavering voice. “And because a man who pretends to be helpless while plotting his revenge is the most dangerous man in the room. I’d rather be on your side.”

A slow, dangerous smile—the first real emotion she had seen on his face—curled the corner of Vincent Corvino’s lips.