Every Maid Quit After Facing the Paralyzed Mafia Boss—Then She Knelt Beside His Wheelchair and Did What Nobody Else Dared.

The fluorescent lights in the infirmary flickered once, hummed violently, and died.

Pitch-black darkness swallowed the room. Fay grabbed the edge of the steel examination table to keep her balance. The only illumination came from the faint red emergency lights kicking on along the baseboards, casting long, bloody shadows across the stainless steel.

Carmine moved instantly. His revolver cleared his holster with a smooth, practiced click.

"Stay behind me," Carmine ordered, his voice dropping into command mode. "Do not speak. Do not run."

"Dominic is up there alone," Fay whispered, her adrenaline surging.

"I know," Carmine said through gritted teeth.

He punched the manual release on the heavy iron door, shoving it open. The basement hallway was filled with the low hum of backup generators and the faint smell of burning copper.

Carmine sprinted toward the main servant stairs, his heavy build surprisingly fast. Fay didn't wait. She followed right on his heels, her rubber sneakers making no sound against the concrete steps.

They reached the ground floor. The mansion’s vast corridors were bathed in red emergency glow. Distant thunder rumbled outside, shaking the massive bay windows.

As they rounded the corner toward the grand foyer, a loud crash echoed from the master suite upstairs—followed by the sharp sound of wood splintering.

Carmine took the grand staircase three steps at a time. Fay raced up behind him, her chest burning.

At the end of the second-floor gallery, the heavy oak doors of Dominic’s bedroom hung open. One door was cracked down the middle, splintered off its brass hinges.

Inside, rain was pouring through a shattered terrace window, soaking the heavy velvet curtains and blowing cold mist across the dark room.

Dominic's wheelchair sat overturned on its side near the fireplace.

"Dominic!" Carmine roared, raising his gun.

On the rug beside the shattered glass, Dominic Corso was on the floor, fighting with everything he had.

A tall man in a black tactical jacket and ski mask had Dominic pinned by the collar, attempting to force a syringe filled with clear fluid into his neck. Despite his paralyzed lower body, Dominic’s upper strength was terrifying. His corded forearms were locked against the assassin's wrists, veins bulging against his neck, his teeth bared in an animalistic snarl as he fought the needle an inch from his throat.

Carmine raised his revolver, but the assassin shifted, using Dominic’s broad body as a human shield.

"Shoot and you hit him!" Luca yelled from the shattered terrace door, suddenly appearing with his gun drawn—pointing not at the intruder, but straight at Carmine.

Fay didn't think.

She spotted the heavy brass pen holder Dominic had used earlier, lying on the floor where it had rolled from the overturned desk. She scooped up the solid two-pound brass block, lunged forward, and brought it crashing down with full force across the masked intruder's temple.

The assassin grunted, his grip slipping as blood welled from his split brow.

Dominic instantly capitalized. With a savage roar, he twisted his torso, slammed his elbow into the man’s throat, and ripped the syringe from his fingers, driving the needle deep into the attacker's own shoulder.

The intruder screamed, stumbling backward onto the broken terrace glass.

Carmine swung his weapon from the assassin to Luca in a fraction of a second. "Drop the piece, Luca! Drop it or I take your head off!"

Luca stood on the wind-swept terrace, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. He looked at Dominic on the floor, then at Carmine's leveled barrel.

A cold smirk crossed Luca’s lips.