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.

At two o'clock in the morning, the mansion was shrouded in a heavy, eerie silence.

Elena slipped down the back service corridor, holding a small brown paper bag. Inside was the wet cloth napkin Vincent had secured from the dining room floor. Vincent had instructed her to hand it over to a trusted ally—his former personal driver and enforcer, a loyal old soldier named Mateo, who was waiting near the estate’s rear gatehouse.

As Elena rounded the corner near the library, she heard low, urgent voices coming from inside.

The heavy double doors of the library were cracked open just an inch. Warm yellow light spilled onto the hardwood floor.

Elena flattened herself against the wall, holding her breath, and peered through the crack.

Inside, Marco was pacing back and forth across the Persian rug, an open bottle of scotch in his hand. Sitting on the corner of the massive mahogany desk was Isabella, swinging her legs, a cigarette burning between her slim fingers.

“He didn't take the dose tonight, Marco!” Isabella hissed, her voice sharp with anxiety. “Grayson said the vial broke!”

“I know it broke, damn it!” Marco spat, taking a heavy swig of scotch. “That stupid maid knocked it out of his hand.”

Isabella laughed bitterly, blowing a ring of gray smoke into the air. “Are you sure she’s stupid, Marco? Because lately, every time something goes wrong for us, that girl is nearby. She’s in his room every morning. She brings him his meals. What if Vincent is using her?”

Marco stopped pacing. His jaw set into a cruel line. “Vincent can barely hold a spoon, Isabella. He’s a vegetable. The doctor assured me the nerve damage is permanent as long as we keep the doses steady.”

“Then give him a permanent dose!” Isabella snapped, slapping her hand against the desk. “I’m sick of playing the grieving, loyal fiancée to a crippled man! My father is pressing me for the Corvino shipping codes! If we don't eliminate Vincent soon and take full control of the family, the Morettis are going to launch a full-scale war!”

Elena’s heart dropped into her stomach.

It wasn't just Marco. It was Isabella too.

Isabella was feeding information to her father—the head of the rival Moretti syndicate—while Marco planned to usurp Vincent’s position as Don. They were working together to destroy Vincent from the inside out.

“Patience, Isabella,” Marco said softly, walking over to her and placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “Grayson will double the dose in his morning IV. By tomorrow night, Vincent’s lungs will fail. The doctor will sign a death certificate listing 'respiratory complications due to spinal trauma.' No marks. No investigation. Clean and simple.”

Isabella leaned up and kissed Marco on the cheek—a sickening display of betrayal right under Vincent’s roof. “Make sure it happens tomorrow, Marco. I want his ring off my finger by Friday.”

Elena backed away slowly, terror gripping her chest.

Tomorrow morning. They were going to kill him in his sleep with a lethal overdose through his IV line!

She turned and sprinted down the dark hallway, making no sound, her mind screaming with urgency. She didn't go to the gatehouse. She ran straight up the grand staircase, past the sleeping guards in the corridor, and unlocked Vincent’s suite door.

She slipped inside and locked the door behind her.

“Vincent!” she gasped out loud, dropping all formalities.

The room was dark, but a silhouette moved by the bed. Vincent was sitting on the edge of the mattress, stripped to his white undershirt and trousers, practicing lifting a heavy iron weight with his right arm. Sweat glistened on his broad chest and shoulders.

He set the weight down instantly, his eyes fixing on her panicked face. “Elena? What happened?”

Elena ran to his bedside, falling to her knees, breathless.

“It’s Marco and Isabella,” she panted, her hazel eyes wide with horror. “I heard them in the library. They’re working with the Moretti family. Grayson is going to put a double dose in your morning IV line to stop your breathing!”

Vincent’s face didn't betray fear. Instead, a terrifying, abyssal dark rage settled over his features. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Isabella...” Vincent whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “My brother and my fiancée. A poetic pair of snakes.”

“We have to get you out of here tonight!” Elena urged, grabbing his hand. “I can help you get to the garage! We can take a car—”

“No,” Vincent interrupted, his grip on her hand turning firm and unyielding. “If I run, they win. They take my family, my empire, and my honor. I don't run from traitors, Elena. I crush them.”

“Vincent, you can't fight an entire mansion of guards on your own!” Elena cried softly. “You can barely walk ten steps!”

Vincent looked down at her. Slowly, deliberately, he placed his feet flat on the floor. He gripped her shoulders, and with a surge of raw, terrifying power, he pulled himself up to his full height.

He stood tall above her, magnificent and terrifying, holding himself erect without trembling.

“I’ve been practicing eighteen hours a day, Elena,” Vincent said, looking down at her, his dark eyes ablaze with fire. “I can’t run a marathon. But I can hold a gun. And I can walk into a room.”

Elena stared up at him, breathless, feeling the sheer aura of authority radiating off him. He wasn't a broken victim anymore. He was a Don ready to reclaim his throne.