The hum of the advanced MRI machine at the Midtown private imaging clinic sounded like a low, mechanical growl beneath the cavernous silence of the underground facility.

The sun climbed higher over Oyster Bay, casting long, sharp shadows across the manicured lawns and the dark waters of the bay. Inside the private medical suite attached to the Ferraro estate, the air smelled of antiseptic and cold fear.

Julian Wexler sat rigidly in a leather examination chair, his medical bag resting unopened on the counter. Standing guard by the door was Gio, his arms crossed, his massive frame blocking any hope of escape.

Norah stood near the instrument tray, methodically laying out sterile tools under Dominic’s watchful gaze. She had insisted on supervising the preliminary diagnostic check herself, refusing to let Wexler touch a single instrument.

Dominic sat on the edge of the examination table, his expression unreadable. He looked at Norah as she adjusted the headlamp, her movements efficient and devoid of hesitation. There was a quiet strength in her that the three years of destitution hadn't managed to break; if anything, the hardship had forged her into something unbreakable.

You shouldn't have come back to New York, Wexler muttered, his voice shaking as he glared up at Norah. You could have stayed in Ohio. Or Florida. Anywhere your fake credentials wouldn't catch up to you.

Norah didn't look up from her tray. "I didn't come back for New York, Julian. I came back because I left my stethoscope in a hospital room where a man was being murdered in slow motion."

"Murdered?" Wexler let out a hysterical, thin laugh. "I saved his life! Do you have any idea what would have happened if Dominic walked out of that hospital with full hearing after the bombing? The rival syndicates—the Russo family, the dock unions—they would have known he wasn't as broken as they thought. His silence was the only thing that kept a full-scale turf war from erupting across the tri-state area. I kept him safe. I kept all of us safe!"

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. He stood up from the table, stepping into Wexler’s personal space.

Safe for whom? Dominic signed, his hands moving with sharp, lethal emphasis. For you? For Sabrina? For the accounts you’ve been draining from the syndicate’s offshore holdings while I sat in this house unable to hear a single whisper behind my back?

Wexler’s eyes widened in sheer panic. "That’s... that’s absurd. Sabrina handles the social funds—"

"Sabrina handles the gallery openings," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "You handle the shell companies. And for three years, you’ve been positioning yourself to take over the entire estate the moment the marriage contract was signed next week."

Before Wexler could stammer out another denial, the door to the medical suite burst open. Sabrina stood on the threshold, her face flushed with rage, her phone clutched in her hand like a weapon.

"You're investigating your own family?" Sabrina shrieked, marching right up to Dominic, completely blind to the lethal danger radiating from him. "You’re going to destroy our lives—our future—over the word of a deranged street beggar? If you don't throw her out right now and let Julian do his job, I swear to God, Dominic, I'll walk out that door, and I'll take every single high-society connection, every political endorsement, and every piece of our wedding contract with me!"

Dominic turned slowly to face her.

For three years, Sabrina had filled his silence with her words—words he read on her lips, words he trusted, words he believed were built on loyalty and affection. But looking at her now, seeing the frantic, greedy desperation in her eyes, he realized she had never loved him. She had loved the trophy of being the devoted fiancée of a powerful, broken man who couldn't talk back.

Dominic reached into his pocket, pulled out a small digital recorder, and tossed it onto the examination table.

Sabrina stared at it. The red recording light was blinking.

"What... what is that?" she whispered, her voice suddenly losing its sharp edge.

"That," Gio said darkly from the door, stepping forward, "is the recording of your phone call to Julian twenty minutes ago, where you discussed liquidating the Cayman accounts and catching a private flight to Zurich before Dominic's scan results could be verified by an independent surgeon."