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 room erupted into chaos.

Before Marco’s guards could raise their weapons, Vincent ducked behind the solid oak headboard of his bed and fired three precise, lethal shots.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The deafening gunshots shattered the quiet of the morning. Two of Marco’s guards dropped instantly to the floor, their weapons clattering against the hardwood.

The third guard aimed directly at Vincent’s exposed shoulder—

“No!” Elena screamed.

She grabbed the heavy brass floor lamp beside the hearth and swung it with all her strength, slamming it directly into the side of the third guard’s head!

The guard stumbled sideways, his shot wildly hitting the ceiling plaster. Vincent instantly turned his weapon and fired one final round, taking the third guard down permanently.

Gunsmoke filled the bedroom, thick and acrid.

Marco saw his chance. He scrambled across the floor toward the open doorway, desperate to escape into the long hallway where more of his mercenary forces were stationed.

Vincent stepped out from behind the bed. His legs groaned under the sudden, violent exertion, his knees trembling slightly, but his hatred kept him upright. He marched out into the hallway after his brother.

Elena grabbed a fallen guard’s pistol from the floor, her hands shaking, and followed right behind Vincent.

Down in the grand foyer, thunder crashed outside as the massive front doors were suddenly kicked open!

A dozen armed men dressed in black tactical gear—Moretti syndicate hitmen—poured into the mansion, led by Isabella’s uncle, Silvio Moretti.

“Marco!” Silvio bellowed, looking around the grand foyer. “Where is the crippled boss? Is it done?”

Marco sprinted down the grand marble staircase, breathless, pointing frantically up at the second-floor balcony. “He’s alive! He can walk! Kill him! Kill them all!”

Silvio and his hitmen looked up at the balcony in disbelief.

Standing at the top of the grand marble staircase, illuminated by a flash of lightning through the high stained-glass windows, stood Vincent Corvino.

He didn't look like an invalid. He looked like an angry god returned from the underworld.

Dressed in a dark suit, his eyes burning with cold, unyielding vengeance, Vincent held his pistol steady. Beside him stood Elena, her maid dress torn at the hem, holding her gun with fierce, desperate bravery.

“Silvio Moretti!” Vincent’s voice echoed down the marble hall like a trumpet of judgment. “You stepped into my house. You bought my brother. You corrupted my fiancée. And now, you die in my home.”

With a roar, dozens of footsteps echoed from the side corridors!

From the east and west wings, forty heavily armed Corvino loyalists—led by old Mateo, whom Elena had contacted the night before—flooded into the grand foyer, surrounding Silvio Moretti and his hitmen from every side!

Mateo raised a heavy assault rifle, locking his sights on Silvio. “The Don is back, you bastards! Drop your weapons or we paint this marble red!”

Silvio Moretti looked around in absolute terror. The trap had failed. The broken king was standing, his army was reborn, and they were completely surrounded.

One by one, the Moretti hitmen dropped their rifles to the polished floor.

Marco realized it was over. He turned, attempting to sprint toward the rear service exit—

“Marco!”

Vincent’s voice froze him in his tracks.

Vincent walked slowly down the marble stairs, his footsteps heavy and rhythmic, echoing through the silent mansion. He stopped three steps above his younger brother.

Marco turned around slowly, dropping to his knees on the cold marble, weeping openly. “Vincent... please... we’re blood! We’re brothers! Our father would never want you to kill your own blood!”

Vincent looked down at his brother, his face emotionless, cold as ice.

“Our father taught us that betrayal has one price, Marco,” Vincent whispered softly. “And you set the price yourself six months ago.”

Vincent didn't shoot him. He turned to Mateo.

“Take him and Isabella to the basement,” Vincent ordered flatly. “The federal authorities and my capos will hear their full confession before sunset. Strip them of the Corvino name.”

“Yes, Don Vincent,” Mateo grinned, signaling the guards to drag Marco and Isabella away as they wailed for mercy.

The mansion went quiet. The battle was won.

Vincent stood at the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, his body gave out. The sheer physical toll of standing, walking, and fighting caught up to him all at once.

His knees buckled.

Before he could hit the hard marble, Elena caught him. She wrapped her arms around his broad waist, supporting his massive weight, lowering him gently onto the bottom step.

Vincent leaned his head back against the carved railing, gasping for air, sweat pouring down his forehead. He looked up at Elena, who was kneeling beside him, her hazel eyes filled with tears of relief.

“We did it,” she whispered, her hands gently wiping the blood and sweat from his cheek. “You reclaimed your house, Vincent.”