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

The grand ballroom fell silent as the clock struck nine.

Julian Rourke stood on the raised dais at the head of the ballroom, tapping a crystal champagne flute with a silver butter knife. Beside him stood the head of the Longshoremen's Union and two Providence city commissioners.

"Friends, family, honored colleagues," Julian projected with oily charm, raising his glass. "Tonight is bittersweet. As many of you know, my beloved brother Maxwell’s health has deteriorated drastically over the last few days. The doctors inform me he may not survive the month."

Gasps and performative murmurs of sorrow rippled through the high-society crowd.

"In his honor," Julian continued, his eyes gleaming with greedy triumph, "I am assuming full executive control of Rourke Shipping, the marine terminals, and the family trusts. To Maxwell... may his final voyage be peaceful."

Julian raised his glass to drink.

*BAM.*

The massive double doors at the top of the grand marble staircase blew open, slamming against the plaster walls like thunder.

Every single head in the ballroom snapped upward.

Julian froze, the champagne glass halfway to his mouth.

Framed in the golden light of the upper landing stood a man.

He was not in a wheelchair.

He wore a bespoke black tuxedo, his posture straight as an iron girder, his broad shoulders commanding the entire expanse of the cathedral ceiling. Beside him, dressed in an emerald green silk dress taken from the master suites, stood Martha, her head held high, radiating fierce elegance.

Maxwell Rourke took a step forward.

Then another.

He walked down the grand marble staircase with deliberate, measured power, descending like a dark god returning from the underworld. Each strike of his leather dress shoes against the marble echoed through the paralyzed silence of the room.

"Maxwell..." Julian choked, his face draining of all color until he looked like a walking corpse. "You're... you can't..."

The union bosses backed away from Julian as if he were covered in plague.

Maxwell reached the bottom of the stairs, stopping five feet from his trembling younger brother. The sheer physical aura of the man silenced the two hundred guests; not a single person dared to breathe.

"You were always a terrible shot, Julian," Maxwell said, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the ballroom. "Fourteen months ago on the docks, you paid Dr. Vance to put two bullets in my back. And when God let me live, you paid him to pump my veins full of paralytics so you could play king."

"Lies!" Julian screamed, frantically looking around for his armed security. "Guards! Seize him! He's delusional! Guards!"

None of the guards moved.

Standing near the perimeter of the room were five old-school dock captains—men who had bled with Maxwell's father. They saw Maxwell standing tall, saw the true boss back on his feet, and immediately drew their weapons, turning them directly on Julian’s hired thugs.

"Dr. Vance is currently tied up in my closet with a signed confession in his pocket," Maxwell said coldly, pulling a crisp sheaf of documents from his inner tuxedo pocket and tossing them at the feet of the police commissioner sitting at the head table. "Complete with wire transfers from Julian's shell accounts to Vance's Cayman corporation."

Julian broke.

With a wild, panicked shriek, Julian reached into his tuxedo for a concealed snub-nosed revolver.

He never got the barrel clear.

Maxwell closed the distance with terrifying speed, his left hand slapping Julian's wrist aside while his right fist drove straight into Julian’s jaw with the force of a hydraulic press.

Julian flew backward, crashing through the champagne pyramid. Hundreds of crystal glasses shattered in a spectacular, glittering explosion of foam and glass.

Julian lay sprawled in the wreckage, bleeding, groaning, completely broken.

Maxwell stood over him, adjusting the cuffs of his tuxedo. He looked up at the frozen crowd, his eyes sweeping across the politicians, the businessmen, and the dockers.