The bathwater was hot enough to burn Maxwell Rourke’s skin, yet the paralyzed crime boss sat there without so much as a flinch.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Doctor," I said, backing away toward the tub while keeping myself positioned between him and Maxwell.

"Don't play dumb, you little gutter rat," Vance hissed, stepping forward and leveling the gleaming blade. "Julian pays me fifty thousand dollars a month to keep this animal quiet. I noticed the cotton fibers in the port cap yesterday. You've been tampering with the injections."

Vance lunged straight at me, the blade aiming for my throat to silence me before I could scream for the guards.

I didn't have time to scream.

Behind Vance, the wheelchair didn't creak.

Because Maxwell Rourke didn't use the wheelchair.

With a roar that sounded like a freight train coming off the tracks, Maxwell surged upward from the chair on his own two legs.

He didn't have full agility, but he didn't need it. His upper body possessed the terrifying strength of a man who had pulled mooring lines on the docks since he was sixteen.

Maxwell launched his entire weight forward, his massive hand clamping around the back of Vance’s neck like an iron vise, slamming the doctor's face directly into the mahogany dresser.

*CRACK.*

Wood splintered. Vance shrieked, dropping the knife as blood erupted from his broken nose.

Maxwell didn't let him fall. He spun the doctor around, his other hand gripping Vance’s throat, pinning the older man against the wall with his feet dangling inches above the floor. Maxwell stood tall, his legs shaking violently under the strain, but holding.

"You poisoned my food," Maxwell snarled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that rattled the windowpanes. "You took my legs. You let my brother treat me like a dog."

"M-Maxwell..." Vance choked out, his face turning purple, his hands clawing uselessly at Maxwell’s wrists. "Julian... Julian has thirty armed men downstairs... the docks are his... you can't stop it..."

"Martha," Maxwell commanded without looking back. "The zip-ties from the tool closet. Now."

I scrambled to the utility cabinet, pulling out heavy industrial nylon ties. Working together, we bound Vance’s wrists and ankles, shoving a gag of rolled medical tape between his bleeding teeth, and dragged him into the deep cedar closet behind the bathroom.

Maxwell sank back onto the edge of the bed, his legs giving out completely from the massive burst of adrenaline. He was panting, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, his eyes blazing with savage triumph.

"Did he cut you?" Maxwell asked, his voice rough as he grabbed my hands, inspecting my palms and wrists with fierce urgency.

"No," I breathed, trembling from head to toe. "I’m fine. But Maxwell... Vance is right about one thing. Julian has the entire house surrounded by his loyalists. The Gala starts in three hours. If Vance doesn't report downstairs, Julian will send his hitmen up here to finish the job."

Maxwell looked down at his trembling legs, then reached out, his bloody knuckles cupping the side of my face with shocking tenderness.

"Julian thinks he's throwing a celebration tonight to dance on my grave," Maxwell said, a terrifying, beautiful smile spreading across his face. "Instead, he’s going to watch the ghost walk."

He looked into my eyes, his voice steady as granite.