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

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the sprawling stone terraces of the Montenegro estate, but the atmosphere inside the mansion’s private study was decidedly glacial.

Augusto stood rigidly by the mahogany desk, holding a silver tray with a cup of black espresso, though Dante hadn't touched it. The mafia boss sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the manicured hedges where a sleek black Mercedes had just pulled up near the front entrance.

"He's early," Augusto muttered, his voice laced with unmistakable anxiety.

Dante didn't turn around. His dark eyes remained fixed on the vehicle as the rear door swung open and a tall, impeccably tailored man stepped out. Marco Montenegro. His cousin, his corporate rival, and the man currently orchestrating a silent coup behind his back.

"Let him in," Dante commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that carried the weight of an approaching storm. "And tell Marina to stay in the west wing. I don't want him crossing paths with her."

"Sir, Miss Oliveira is currently reviewing your post-therapy vitals," Augusto began cautiously.

"That wasn't a suggestion, Augusto," Dante interrupted, turning his wheelchair slowly to face the butler. His gaze was absolute ice. "Get her out of sight. Marco smells blood in the water. I won't give him another weapon to use against me."

Too late.

Before Augusto could exit toward the west wing, the heavy oak doors of the study flew open without so much as a knock. Marco Montenegro strolled into the room, a sickeningly confident smirk plastered across his handsome, sharp-featured face. He wore an expensive Italian wool suit, and a diamond-encrusted watch gleamed on his wrist under the chandelier light.

"Dante, my dear cousin!" Marco’s voice rang out, rich with condescending warmth. "Look at you. Still holding court in this gloomy fortress. I hear rumors you've gone through four nurses in a single month. You really shouldn't take your frustrations out on the medical staff. It’s... unbecoming of a Don."

Dante didn't blink. He sat motionless in his wheelchair, his hands resting calmly on the armrests, though the subtle tension in his shoulders telegraphed the lethal predator lying beneath the surface. "Marco. To what do I owe the profound displeasure of this visit? Did the corporate board meeting get boring, or did you run out of company funds to embezzle?"

Marco’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second before hardening into a sharp, thin line. He walked uninvited toward the desk, leaning his hips against the polished wood, looking down at Dante with thinly veiled pity.

"Always so hostile, Dante. That's your primary flaw. You think every disagreement is a war," Marco said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "I’m here out of familial concern. The family council is growing restless. The cartel routes in the southern district are fracturing because our associates need a leader who can travel, negotiate, and stand on his own two feet—literally."

Dante’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, letting Marco dig his own grave.

"We are calling an emergency quorum this Friday," Marco continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial purr. "Step down voluntarily, hand over the primary signatures to the council, and we’ll ensure you retain a comfortable stipend and your medical care here in the mansion. Otherwise... well, let's just say the board won't be nearly as generous when they vote you out by force."

Marco leaned down slightly, invading Dante's personal space, thinking he had completely broken the paralyzed Don.

Suddenly, the side door connecting the study to the private medical corridor clicked open.

Marco blinked, straightening up as footsteps approached.

Marina walked into the room, holding a medical file and a fresh bottle of electrolyte water. She was dressed in her crisp white uniform, her hair tied back neatly. She froze for a split second upon seeing the stranger in the room, then resumed her steady, unbothered stride toward Dante’s chair.

Marco’s eyes widened slightly as he looked her up and down, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Ah. So this is the legendary fifth nurse. Tell me, sweetheart, how long before you pack your bags and run away crying like the others?"

Marina stopped right beside Dante’s wheelchair. She didn't look at Marco immediately; instead, she unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and handed it down to Dante, who accepted it with a dark, burning glare aimed squarely at his cousin.

Finally, Marina turned her head, fixing Marco with a cold, unimpressed stare.

"I don't run," Marina said, her voice cutting through the heavy air of the room like a scalpel. "And as for Mr. Montenegro—I suggest you enjoy your little corporate power fantasies while they last, Mr. Montenegro. Because by Friday, he won't just be sitting in this chair. He'll be standing right behind you."

Marco stared at her in utter astonishment, then threw his head back and let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Standing? Oh, brilliant! The nurse is a comedian!" He turned back to Dante, shaking his head. "Is this the kind of delusional company you keep now, cousin? God help us all."

Marco turned on his heel and strode toward the double doors, pausing just before the threshold to toss a final parting shot over his shoulder. "Friday morning, Dante. Be ready to sign the papers. The empire doesn't wait for cripples."

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him.

Silence descended upon the study, heavier and darker than before. Dante’s hands gripped the armrests so violently the wood splintered. His breathing was ragged, his chest burning with a tidal wave of humiliation and rage.