Three minutes before my brother shattered my leg with a concrete landscaping block, my eight-year-old daughter was teaching my mother how to make a friendship bracelet.

By the fifth day, the hospital walls felt like a prison. The orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Chen, stood at the foot of my bed holding a set of black-and-white X-rays.

"The bone reconstruction went well, Ava," Dr. Chen said, pointing a pen at the shadowy images of titanium plates and six industrial-grade screws holding my tibia together. "But the soft tissue damage is extensive. The impact tore your anterior tibial artery and crushed the peroneal nerve. You have severe foot drop. You won't be bearing weight on this leg for at least six months. Full recovery, if it happens, will take two years."

"I’m a physical therapist, Dr. Chen," I said quietly. "Give it to me straight. Will I ever demonstrate a proper squat or gait correction to a patient again?"

Dr. Chen sighed, setting the X-rays down. "Without intensive therapy and a custom brace? Unlikely. You need to focus on resting."

"I can't rest. My lease for the clinic space starts in twenty days."

"Ava, you can barely stand on one foot!"

"Then I’ll work from a wheelchair."

That afternoon, Marcus Vance arrived at the hospital. Marcus was fifty-five, dressed in a sharp pinstripe suit, with a reputation for being the most ruthless civil litigation attorney in Franklin County. He was also a former patient whose shoulder I had rehabilitated after a motorcycle accident three years ago.

"They've filed a temporary restraining order against you," Marcus said, dropping a thick manila folder onto my lap.

I blinked. "Against me? I'm the one in the hospital bed!"

"Your mother hired Arthur Pendelton," Marcus explained, sitting in the armchair. "Pendelton is an old-school boy's-club lawyer. He filed a petition in probate court claiming that your 'mental instability' and 'unprovoked hostility' make you a danger to your mother and brother. He's arguing that your criminal complaint is an attempt to extort your family out of your late father's estate trust."

"My father's trust?" I scoffed. "My father died with fifty thousand dollars in debt! Mom spent the entire life insurance payout on Derek's sports car in 2018!"

"Pendelton knows that," Marcus said grimly. "It’s a distraction tactic. They want to tie you up in civil court so you run out of money before Derek’s preliminary hearing. If you’re broke, you can’t afford legal counsel to push the prosecutor, and you’ll be forced to accept a plea bargain that lets Derek walk with probation."

"How much money does Derek have?"

"None. But your mother just took out a second mortgage on her house to pay Pendelton’s retainer."

I closed my eyes. My mother was willing to lose the house she had lived in for thirty years—the house my father built with his own hands—just to keep her golden boy out of a orange jumpsuit.

"What's our move?" I asked.

Marcus smiled, a predatory sharp look. "We don't play defense, Ava. We go after the money. I ran a asset search on Derek this morning. Did you know he holds three commercial bank accounts under the name 'Sinclair Global Logistics LLC'?"

"He doesn't own any trucks."

"No, but those accounts received forty thousand dollars in wire transfers over the last six months from a shell corporation registered in Nevada. I spoke to my investigator. Derek isn't just broke—he’s laundering money for an illegal sports gambling ring operating out of East Columbus. That twenty-five thousand he demanded from you at the barbecue wasn't for a business investment. It was to pay off an enforcement collector who threatened to break his arms."

The breath caught in my throat. "He came to my mother's backyard, surrounded by children, carrying a debt to mobsters?"

"And when you said no, he panicked," Marcus confirmed. "If we bring this information to the prosecutor, Derek isn't just facing state assault charges. He’s looking at federal racketeering and wire fraud charges."

Before I could answer, the door to my room flew open.

My Aunt Brenda marched in, wearing a oversized cheetah-print cardigan, carrying a plastic basket of stale blueberry muffins. Behind her was my cousin Todd, a built twenty-five-year-old who worked as a bouncer at a local dive bar.

"Ava Marie Sinclair!" Brenda barked, throwing the muffins onto the bedside table. "You have gone entirely too far!"

Emma, who was sitting at the small table coloring, flinched and retreated behind my bed.

"Brenda," I said coldly. "Get out."

"You put your mother in the hospital!" Brenda yelled, pointing a red-nailed finger at my face. "Gloria had a panic attack this morning because the sheriff served her with a subpoena! She’s sixty-two years old! Her blood pressure is through the roof, and you’re sitting here playing the victim over a little scrape!"

"A little scrape?" Marcus stood up, his tall frame instantly intimidating my cousin Todd, who took a step back into the hallway. "Madam, my client has six titanium screws in her leg and permanent nerve damage. I suggest you leave before I call hospital security and have you cited for witness intimidation."

"Who the hell are you?" Brenda sneered.

"I am her attorney," Marcus said calmly. "And if you take one more step toward that child, I will have the court issue an emergency protective order against you by four o'clock today."

Brenda glared at me, her face contorted with hatred. "You were always a selfish, ungrateful brat, Ava. Derek was right about you. You think you're better than the rest of us because you got a little piece of paper from a college. But family is family. And when this is over, you won't have a single person left in this world."

"I have my daughter," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "And unlike you, I won't teach her that love means letting a monster break her bones."