THE MAFIA BOSS IN THE WHEELCHAIR WAS HUMILIATED IN FRONT OF 300 GUESTS—THEN HIS CONTRACT WIFE LEARNED WHO PUT HIM THERE

The Metropolitan Club was a sprawling mansion of marble columns and velvet curtains, packed with New York's wealthiest elite.

When Dominic’s arrival was announced, a hush fell over the room. He rolled through the grand entrance with calm, terrifying authority, his chin held high, wearing his wheelchair not as a weakness, but as a throne. At his side, I walked in the blood-red gown, holding his hand tightly.

Roland Pike stood near the grand piano, surrounded by politicians and foreign investors. When he saw us, his eyes narrowed, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Ah, Dominic! And the lovely Mrs. Vale," Roland called out loudly, holding up a glass of scotch. "I didn't think you'd have the stomach for another public outing after last night."

Dominic didn't flinch. "I hear you're bidding on the SoHo district, Roland. I came to watch you overpay."

Roland laughed, a cold, arrogant sound. "Overpay? My dear boy, I own that district. Your little wife's former company left behind quite a messy paper trail. I cleaned it up."

While Roland and Dominic engaged in a verbal duel of subtle threats, I quietly excused myself, pretending to head toward the powder room.

Using the security keycard Gabriel had slipped into my clutch, I slipped past the VIP velvet rope and made my way toward Roland’s private suite on the second floor.

My heart hammered in my chest. The corridors were quiet, dimly lit by antique sconces. I reached Roland’s private office, swiped the keycard, and slipped inside.

The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and expensive leather. I rushed to the desk, plugged a tiny encrypted flash drive into Roland’s laptop, and began downloading the SoHo land registry files.

10%... 35%... 60%...

The progress bar moved painfully slow.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door clicked open behind me.

"Looking for something, Mrs. Vale?"

I spun around. Roland Pike stood in the doorway, holding a glass of whiskey, a cruel grin playing on his lips. Behind him stood two massive, armed bodyguards.

"Mr. Pike," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm as I stepped in front of the laptop to hide the flashing drive. "I was looking for the lady's room. I must have taken a wrong turn."

"A wrong turn up a private staircase and past two security doors?" Roland stepped into the room, signaling his guards to close the door behind them. "You're a clever girl, Claire. But stupid. Did you really think Dominic Vale could protect you? He couldn't even protect his own legs."

"Dominic is ten times the man you will ever be," I snapped.

Roland’s face darkened with rage. He tossed his drink onto the carpet and took a threatening step toward me. "He's a cripple! A washed-up mobster sitting in his own filth! And once I buy the SoHo district, I'll have the remaining police commissioner put him in a cell for the rest of his pathetic life!"

Roland grabbed my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. "Now, give me that flash drive, or my boys will make sure you suffer the same 'accident' your husband did."

"I wouldn't recommend touching my wife, Roland."

A cold, deadly voice echoed from the doorway.

We all turned.

Dominic was sitting in his wheelchair at the entrance of the office. But he was not alone. Behind him stood Gabriel and six dark-suited operatives carrying silenced submachine guns.

Roland sneered, using me as a human shield. "You brought guns to a charity event, Dom? You really are losing your mind. Call off your men, or I broke her arm!"

Dominic slowly raised his right hand.

"Roland," Dominic said, his voice chillingly calm. "You think I'm weak because I sit in this chair. You think I am confined."

Dominic's eyes turned pitch black with fury.

"Gabriel. Clear the room."

Before Roland could react, Gabriel stepped forward with lightning speed, striking Roland’s wrist with a tactical baton. Roland shrieked in pain, letting go of me. Gabriel grabbed my waist and pulled me safely behind Dominic’s chair.

In a matter of seconds, Dominic’s men disarmed Roland’s bodyguards, forcing them onto their knees with guns pressed to the backs of their heads.

Dominic wheeled himself right up to Roland, who was cradling his broken wrist on the floor.

Dominic leaned down, grabbing Roland by the collar of his expensive tuxedo, pulling the trembling silver-haired billionaire down to his level.

"You called me half a man," Dominic whispered, his breath cold against Roland’s ear. "But a real man doesn't hide behind stolen money and hitmen. Tomorrow, the SoHo property goes to Claire's new firm. If you try to bid, I won't just ruin you financially, Roland. I will personally bury you beneath the concrete of the foundations you built."

Dominic tossed Roland back onto the floor like trash. He turned his chair toward me, his dark eyes searching my face for any sign of injury.

"Are you hurt?" he asked softly.