The screen of Nora’s phone went dark. For two terrifying seconds, the Manhattan skyline outside Dante Moretti’s floor-to-ceiling windows seemed to tilt on its axis.

The digital clock on Dante’s desk glowed 2:15 PM.

The penthouse office had been transformed into an operational command center. Three computer monitors sat on the side table, displaying encrypted data feeds, security camera logs, and financial transactions from Moretti Enterprises' subsidiaries.

Dante sat before the central screen, his fingers flying across a mechanical keyboard with surprising speed. Despite his paralysis, his upper body strength and tactical mind remained razor-sharp.

Nora stood beside him, holding a mug of black coffee she had brewed herself, refusing to let any member of the kitchen staff touch it.

“Marco hasn't come back,” Nora observed, keeping her eyes fixed on the hallway monitor reflecting on the glass partition.

“He’s buying time,” Dante muttered without looking up. “He knows the west-wing camera feed was wiped at 11:14 AM. He thinks I won't notice the missing six minutes.”

“Why haven't you fired him?”

“Because an enemy you can see is a tactical asset,” Dante explained, pulling up a bank wire transfer originating from a Cayman Islands account. “Marco thinks he’s playing me. But I’ve been feeding him false data regarding my physical therapy milestones for six weeks. He thinks my legs are permanently dead.”

Nora blinked. “Are they?”

Dante stopped typing. He slowly gripped his right thigh, applying firm downward pressure. A muscle in his calf twitched.

“They’re waking up,” Dante said quietly. “The nerve regeneration started two weeks ago. But Kaplan’s sedative compound was dampening the electrical signals, making me feel like lead every time I tried to stand.”

Nora set her coffee mug down with a sharp clink. “Kaplan was keeping you paralyzed on purpose.”

“By order of whoever wants my seat on the syndicate board,” Dante replied, his eyes dark as obsidian. “Moretti Enterprises controls eighty percent of the North American shipping lanes and commercial logistics hubs. When my SUV was run off the West Side Highway six months ago, they thought the crash would finish the job. When I survived, they decided to finish it slowly, inside my own home.”

“And Marco?”

“Marco was bought off three years ago during the union strike. He thought I never found out.” Dante looked up at Nora. “I keep my enemies close so I can watch them hang themselves.”

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

Before Dante could answer, the door swung open. Dr. Elias Kaplan stood in the threshold, looking entirely unlike the polished, arrogant physician who had stood in the room hours earlier. His hair was disheveled, his tie crooked, and a sheen of cold sweat coated his forehead.

“Dante,” Kaplan stammered, stepping into the room. “We need to talk. Privately.”

Nora stepped smoothly between Kaplan and the desk. “Dr. Kaplan. What a surprise. Did you forget your medical bag, or are you here to prescribe another batch of defective capsules?”

Kaplan glared at her with thinly veiled hatred. “Stay out of this, Ms. Walsh. This is a matter between me and Mr. Moretti.”

“Everything in this room concerns me,” Nora fired back, her voice dropping into a dangerous register. “You prescribed a nerve-suppressing sedative to a paralyzed man under the guise of pain management. In any civilized state, that’s attempted murder.”

“Shut your mouth!” Kaplan snapped, lunging forward.

Before he could take a second step, Dante’s voice cracked like a gunshot through the room.

“Stop right there, Elias.”

Kaplan froze. He looked at Dante, who had slowly wheeled himself forward, his hands resting on the armrests, his dark eyes boring into the doctor’s soul.

“You’ve been my family doctor for twenty-one years,” Dante said softly. “My father trusted you. I trusted you.”

“Dante, listen to me,” Kaplan pleaded, his voice cracking. “I had no choice. They threatened my daughter. The syndicate—they have her in Madrid. If I didn't alter your prescription, if I didn't keep you in that chair...”

“Who?” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. “Name names, Elias.”

Kaplan opened his mouth to speak.

Thwack.

A muffled sound echoed from the hallway, followed by a heavy thud against the outer door.

Dante and Nora exchanged a single glance.

“Get down!” Dante roared, lunging out of his wheelchair with sudden, explosive force.

Before Kaplan could react, a high-caliber sniper round pierced the floor-to-ceiling glass window, shattering the reinforced pane into a million glittering crystals. The bullet tore through the air where Dante’s head had been a second earlier, embedding itself deep into the mahogany bookshelf behind them.

Kaplan screamed as a second round smashed through the door frame, catching him squarely in the chest. The doctor dropped to the floor, blood pooling across the Persian rug.

Nora hit the floor behind Dante’s desk, her hands clamped over her ears, breathing in ragged, terrifying gasps.