Ellie Rowan touched the black strap around Dominic Vale’s left leg just as his cane struck the marble floor.

Dr. Evans knelt beside Dominic’s chair, his hands visibly shaking as he opened his medical kit. He pulled out a small penlight and examined the small silver locking pin at the base of the carbon-fiber frame.

As the light hit the metal, Evans’s face lost all its color.

"What is that?" Dominic asked softly.

"It... it looks like a secondary tension-screw," Evans stammered, his voice trembling. "It’s not part of the manufacturer’s original design."

"Who fitted this brace on me yesterday, Evans?" Dominic demanded.

"I did," Evans whispered, swallowing hard. "But... but the brace was delivered directly to my clinic from the specialized medical supplier in Northbrook. I assumed it was customized for your physical therapy routine!"

"You assumed?" Dominic leaned forward, his massive hand slamming down onto the armrest of the velvet chair. The loud crack echoed through the foyer like a gunshot. "You're the chief of orthopedics at Northwestern! You don't assume when you put a metal frame on my leg!"

Clare pulled Ellie back toward the linen cart, holding her hands over the child's ears.

Ellie didn't look scared, though. She watched Dr. Evans's trembling hands with quiet curiosity. "He used the small screwdriver," Ellie whispered softly to her mother. "The one with the green handle."

The room went dead silent.

Dominic turned his head slowly toward Ellie. "What did you say, little one?"

Ellie pointed her wooden latch toy toward Dr. Evans's black medical bag. "Yesterday, in the big car outside. The man with the green tool was talking to the doctor."

Dr. Evans gasped, backing away on his knees, his eyes wide with sheer terror. "No! I—I didn't—"

"Vincent!" Dominic roared.

Vincent Hale appeared from the shadows of the hallway like a ghost, pulling a silver semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and racking the slide with a crisp CLACK. He placed the barrel directly against the back of Dr. Evans’s neck.

"On the floor, Doctor," Vincent growled.

"Please! Don't shoot!" Evans sobbed, pressing his forehead against the marble tiles. "I had no choice! They threatened my family! They said if I didn't swap the brace hinge, they would publish the offshore account records from my clinic!"

"Who threatened you?" Dominic asked, his voice deathly calm.

Dr. Evans raised his head slightly, his eyes flicking in absolute terror toward Arthur Voss, who was still standing near the conference room doors.

Arthur’s face remained completely stoic, though the vein in his temple throbbed violently.

"He's lying," Arthur said smoothly, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab his forehead. "The doctor is clearly trying to shift blame for his own medical negligence. Vincent, remove this man from the premises."

"Nobody moves," Dominic commanded.

He slowly stood up from the velvet armchair. For the first time in three weeks, he did not use his cane. He put his full weight onto his left leg.

The pain was there, but without the teeth biting into his sciatic nerve, his leg held firm.

Dominic took three deliberate steps toward Arthur Voss. The floor beneath his leather shoes groaned under the weight of his absolute authority.

"You thought I was getting old, Arthur," Dominic said softly. "You thought three weeks of cripple-pain would make me sign over the council's offshore accounts to your management firm."

"Dominic, this is absurd—"

Dominic raised his heavy mahogany cane and smashed it straight through the glass panel of the conference room door.

Glass shattered across the floor in a cascading waterfall of sharp crystal. The six council members inside scrambled out of their chairs in horror.