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.

That evening, the grand dining room of the Corvino estate was set for a formal family dinner.

Marco Corvino, Vincent’s ambitious younger brother, had called the meeting under the pretense of reviewing the family’s quarterly logistics revenues. Marco was thirty, sharp-featured, with cold blue eyes and a cruel, arrogant smirk that he rarely bothered to hide.

Elena stood against the mahogany wall alongside three other house staff, wearing her formal white serving apron.

At the head of the long oak table sat Vincent in his wheelchair, silent, impassive, a shadow of his former self. To his right sat Isabella, looking radiant in an emerald silk dress, though she deliberately avoided eye contact with her fiancé. To Vincent’s left sat Marco, cutting into a thick ribeye steak with aggressive precision.

At the far end of the table sat Dr. Grayson—a slick, middle-aged man with silver hair, gold-rimmed glasses, and nervous hands.

“The docks in Brooklyn are secured,” Marco said, taking a sip of red wine. “The Moretti family tried to push their luck with the shipping containers last week, but I handled it. Without you at the helm, brother, people think the Corvinos are soft. I had to remind them who runs the city.”

Vincent didn't touch his food. His hands rested motionless beside his plate. “You always were quick to use a gun, Marco. A boss uses his brain.”

Marco’s knife scraped harshly against his porcelain plate. His jaw tightened. “A boss needs to be able to walk into a room, Vincent. The capos are getting restless. They want leadership. They want a man who can stand in front of them, not a ghost who sits in a corner.”

Isabella cleared her throat, adjusting her diamond bracelet. “Marco is right, Vincent. We can't keep pretending things are normal. The wedding was supposed to be three months ago. Now my father is asking questions. The family looks weak.”

“Isabella,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave, cold and heavy as lead. “If you are so eager to leave, the front door is unlocked.”

Isabella bit her lip, turning her face away in furious silence. She couldn't leave—not without her father’s permission, and certainly not without her share of the Corvino fortune.

At that moment, Dr. Grayson coughed nervously and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid.

“It’s time for your evening supplement, Don Vincent,” Dr. Grayson said smoothly, standing up and walking toward Vincent’s seat. “This will help with the muscle spasms in your back.”

Dr. Grayson reached for Vincent’s silver goblet of red wine, aiming to uncap the vial and drop the clear liquid inside.

Elena, standing near the sideboard, felt her heart leap into her throat. This was it. The nerve blocker. The poison that kept Vincent trapped in his body.

She had to act. Now.

Elena picked up a heavy silver gravy boat from the sideboard, stepped forward swiftly, and pretended to trip over the edge of the Persian rug.

“Oh!” Elena gasped aloud.

She stumbled straight into Dr. Grayson, throwing her entire weight into his side.

The silver gravy boat flew from her hands, pouring hot, thick brown gravy directly down the front of Dr. Grayson’s expensive linen suit! The doctor shrieked in shock, dropping the glass vial.

The small vial shattered into a dozen pieces against the marble floor, its clear liquid mingling with the spilled wine and gravy.

“You clumsy idiot!” Dr. Grayson screamed, slapping his hands against his ruined jacket. “Look at what you’ve done!”

Marco slammed his hands on the table, rising from his chair in fury. “What the hell is wrong with the staff in this house? Get this incompetent bitch out of here!”

Elena scrambled to her knees on the marble floor, her face pale, repeatedly bowing her head. “I am so sorry! Please forgive me, Dr. Grayson! The rug caught my shoe! I am so sorry!”

In the chaos, no one noticed Vincent’s right hand.

With lightning speed, Vincent reached down into his lap, pulled a clean cloth napkin from his lap, and wiped a drop of the spilled clear liquid from a glass shard on the floor, tucking the wet napkin deep into his suit pocket.

Vincent’s dark eyes fixed on Elena kneeling on the ground. A flicker of fierce pride shone in his eyes.

“That’s enough, Marco,” Vincent barked, his powerful voice cutting through the dining room like a thunderclap.

The room went instantly dead silent. Even Marco paused, startled by the sheer authority returning to his brother’s tone.

“It was an accident,” Vincent said coldly, staring at Dr. Grayson, who was trembling as he wiped gravy from his chest. “The maid will clean it up. Doctor, you look distressed. Perhaps you should go upstairs and change.”

Dr. Grayson looked down at the shattered glass on the floor, his eyes darting nervously between Vincent and Marco. “Y-yes. Of course, Don Vincent. Excuse me.”

Dr. Grayson practically bolted from the dining room.

Marco glared at Elena, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. He stepped around the table, leaning down until his shadow completely engulfed her.

“You’ve been making a lot of mistakes lately, little girl,” Marco whispered, his voice dark and full of malice. “First hanging around my brother’s bedroom at night, now ruining dinner. I’m going to keep a very close eye on you.”

Elena looked up into Marco’s cold blue eyes, refusing to let her hands shake. “I am only here to serve the family, Mr. Marco.”

“See that you do,” Marco sneered, turning back to his steak.

As Elena gathered the broken glass from the floor, she chanced a glance up at Vincent.