The silence that followed the explosion of six crystal glasses against the custom marble flooring of the Mercer estate kitchen was heavy, jagged, and absolute.

The study was dark, illuminated only by the cold blue glow of dual monitors and the amber embers of a dying fire in the stone hearth.

Jonah sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his knuckles pressed together beneath his chin. On the secure speakerphone, Dante Rossi—his most loyal remaining capo—was shouting numbers and names with frantic urgency.

“...they hit the container yard at midnight, Boss,” Dante’s voice crackled through the encrypted speaker. “Vance’s men. They knew the manifest codes. Somebody inside our logistics chain sold us out. If we don’t retaliate by tomorrow morning, the North Side crews are going to think we’re completely finished.”

“We aren’t finished,” Jonah said, his voice flat, steady, and terrifyingly cold.

“Jonah, be realistic,” Dante urged, softening his tone out of reluctant respect. “You can’t visit the yards in your condition. The last time you tried to ride out to the docks, you nearly collapsed getting out of the SUV. The crews need to see you standing. If they see you in that chair... they’ll smell blood in the water.”

The words struck Jonah like a physical blow. Smell blood in the water.

His fingers dug into the armrests of his wheelchair so hard the leather groaned under his grip. Six months of grueling rehabilitation, endless therapy sessions, and failed attempts to stand had yielded nothing. The doctors called it permanent incomplete paraplegia; Jonah called it a life sentence in a cage of his own flesh.

“I don’t need to stand to run this city, Dante,” Jonah growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. “I need the manifest logs from the Wilmington office on my desk by 0400 hours. Find out who authorized the container transfer. If it’s an internal leak, bring me their name. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Understood, Boss. Be careful.” The line clicked dead.

Jonah exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the leather headrest of his chair. A wave of exhaustion washed over him—not just physical fatigue, but the bone-deep weariness of a man fighting a multi-front war with one hand tied behind his back.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the study creaked open.

Jonah didn’t turn around. “I told Frank I wasn't taking any more calls tonight.”

“I’m not Frank, and I’m not calling,” a dry voice announced from the doorway.

Jonah blinked, turning his chair around.

Riley stood in the threshold holding a ceramic mug that smelled intensely of chamomile and honey, wearing an oversized gray hoodie and plaid flannel pajama pants. Her hair was pulled back into a messy, half-ass bun with a yellow pencil shoved through it.

“What are you doing here, Quinn?” Jonah asked, his voice sharpening. “Your shift ended three hours ago. You’re supposed to be in the guest quarters down the west wing.”

“I live down the west wing, remember? Which happens to be situated directly beneath your private office,” Riley said, stepping into the room and setting the mug down squarely on top of his encrypted terminal keyboard. “And you’ve been up here stomping around—metaphorically speaking—muttering into speakerphones like a moody Batman villain since dinner.”

Jonah stared at the mug of chamomile tea resting directly on top of classified maritime logistics data. “Did you just place a beverage on a secure military-grade terminal?”

“It’s chamomile. It won't hack your mainframe, Jonah. Though honestly, your mainframe could use a little relaxation.” Riley pulled up a leather guest chair, sitting down across from him without an invitation. She crossed her legs, looking him dead in the eye. “Dante sounds like an idiot, by the way.”

Jonah’s eyebrows shot up. “Dante Rossi is a hardened syndicate captain who has controlled the Wilmington corridor for ten years. Watch your mouth.”

“He sounds panicked,” Riley corrected smoothly, blowing on her own mug. “And panic leads to sloppy mistakes. Just like men who try to carry the weight of an entire criminal empire on shoulders that haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.”

“You know nothing about my life, Quinn.”

“I know you’re in pain,” she said softly, the flippant tone dropping away instantly, replaced by the calm, unflappable authority of a clinician who had spent years dealing with broken bodies and shattered minds. “I see the way your shoulders lock up when you try to transfer without the sling. I see the phantom spasms in your legs when you think nobody’s watching. You’re fighting your own body every single second of the day, and then you try to run a mafia on top of it. It’s mathematically unsustainable.”

Jonah’s jaw tightened into a rigid line. He wanted to fire her. He wanted to press the call button, have Frank drag her out of the estate, and banish her back to whatever rundown apartment building she came from.

Instead, he found himself entirely unable to look away from her.

“You talk too much,” Jonah whispered, his voice dangerously low.

“I know. It’s my tragic flaw. We established this on day one.” Riley stood up, picking up her mug, and walked toward the door. She paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. “Drink the tea, Jonah. It won't make you walk, but it might stop you from chewing your own tongue off before sunrise.”