The heavy oak doors of the Montenegro mansion stood slightly ajar, framing a scene of utter chaos in the sprawling

The confrontation in the study set a volatile tone that rippled through the entire Montenegro estate. By evening, the tension in the grand dining hall was thick enough to cut with a machete. Augusto stood near the shadowy arched doorway, nervously wringing a silver polishing cloth between his hands, casting anxious glances toward the head of the long mahogany table.

Dante sat at the far end, his expression a mask of cold, forbidding granite. He hadn't touched his meal. The rich, aromatic ossobuco prepared by the estate's private chef sat cooling on a fine porcelain plate, completely ignored. His dark eyes remained fixed on the empty chair to his left—the seat where Marina was supposed to be.

"Where is she?" Dante demanded, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling.

Augusto stepped forward immediately, bowing his head slightly. "Miss Oliveira is in the west wing, sir. She is reviewing your medical charts from Zurich and preparing your physical therapy schedule for the week."

Dante let out a harsh, bitter scoff, slamming his heavy metal fork onto the table. The sharp clang made the crystal water goblets vibrate. "Physical therapy schedule. She actually believes she's going to make me walk. The best specialists in Europe spent twelve months telling me my spinal cord was a lost cause. Some random nurse with an attitude problem thinks she can perform miracles?"

"She is remarkably stubborn, sir," Augusto ventured carefully, weighing every word. "And... she does not seem easily intimidated."

"Intimidated?" Dante’s eyes flashed with dark amusement. "Fear is a luxury people afford themselves when they don't know who they're dealing with. Tell her to pack her bags and leave by midnight. I won't have a lunatic wandering around my house."

Before Augusto could formulate a diplomatic reply, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with a sharp click.

Marina walked in, completely uninvited. She had traded her white nursing cap for a simple black hair tie, pulling her dark hair back into a sleek, high ponytail. In her hands, she carried a thick leather-bound binder and a heavy metal clipboard. She didn't look at Augusto; her gaze was locked entirely on the mafia boss sitting at the head of the table.

"I heard that," Marina said casually as she strolled down the length of the endless table, her footsteps echoing sharply against the marble floor.

Dante narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in his chair. "You have a dangerous habit of eavesdropping, nurse. And an even more dangerous habit of overstaying your welcome."

"First of all, I wasn't eavesdropping; your voice carries like a foghorn," Marina replied smoothly, pulling out the chair directly to his right and sitting down without waiting for permission. She dropped the heavy metal clipboard onto the table with a loud thud right next to his untouched plate of food. "Second of all, I checked your Zurich files. They're garbage."

Augusto gasped softly, taking an instinctive step backward. No one spoke to Dante Montenegro like that. No one insulted the elite medical institutions that the Don had spent a fortune retaining.

Dante went dead silent. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned his head slowly, locking his terrifying gaze onto Marina, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr. "Garbage? Do you have any idea who compiled those files, girl? Those are the top neurosurgeons in Switzerland."

"And they're cowards," Marina fired back, her voice matching his intensity, completely unshaken. "They gave you what you wanted—an excuse to give up. They told you your nerves were permanently severed because it’s easier to manage a patient who accepts his fate than one who fights back. But I ran the diagnostic tests from your last outpatient exam myself. Your sensory pathways below the L1 vertebra aren't dead, Dante. They're dormant. Atrophied from lack of use and starved of blood flow because you refuse to move an inch."

Dante gripped the edge of the table so hard the ancient wood groaned under his immense grip. "You think you know my body better than I do? You think you can waltz in here and psychoanalyze my medical history after reading a few papers?"

"I don't think. I know," Marina said, leaning closer, her eyes flashing with absolute conviction. She tapped a finger sharply against the metal clipboard. "And tomorrow morning at six sharp, we start the first phase of rehabilitation. No excuses. No tantrums. And definitely no blankets to hide behind."

Dante’s chest heaved with rage. He opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of fury that would send her running out the gates faster than the previous four nurses combined. But before a single word could escape his lips, Marina stood up just as abruptly as she had sat down, snatched the clipboard, and offered a bright, saccharine smile.