THE MAFIA BOSS WAS DYING OF A MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS—UNTIL HIS NEW NURSE KNOCKED THE SYRINGE FROM HIS FIANCÉE’S HAND AND EXPOSED A SICKENING SECRET

The room became an airless vault.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Luca’s massive shoulders rose and fell in shallow, ragged heaves, his cheek pressed flat against the mahogany table.

“You’re insane,” Vanessa whispered, backing up until her spine hit the glass display cabinet of vintage Scotch. Her hands were shaking so hard her rings clinked against each other. “She’s a spy. Luca, listen to me! Dr. Sterling said your metabolism was burning out! He said the peptide pens—!”

“Shut up,” Dante said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it had the weight of lead. The loyalty in the room had suddenly inverted. Dante didn’t look at Vanessa with deference anymore; he looked at her like a target.

“Move!” I shoved past Dante, yanking open the pantry door behind the dining area. “I need orange juice! Now! And maple syrup, honey, anything liquid with high-fructose corn syrup!”

One of the younger guards—barely twenty-five, with a buzz cut—scrambled toward the double-door Sub-Zero refrigerator. He tore open a carton of orange juice, his hands slick with nervousness, and slammed it onto the counter next to me.

I grabbed a glass, filled it halfway, and tore open three packets of raw sugar from a decorative bowl, dumping them in and stirring furiously with a silver butter knife.

“Lift his head,” I ordered Dante.

“He weighs two-thirty, Nurse,” Dante muttered, but he slid a tree-trunk arm behind Luca’s neck, propping the mafia boss up.

Luca’s eyes were half-open, glazed over, showing the whites beneath his heavy lids. His lips were bluish-white. “Emma...” he muttered, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “I can’t... I can’t see you.”

“I know you can’t. Your occipital lobe is shutting down from lack of fuel,” I said firmly, bringing the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Do not swallow too fast, or you’ll aspirate. Sip it. Come on, Luca. Drink.”

For a second, the legendary criminal hesitated, resisting the instinct to be fed like an invalid. Then the animal survival drive took over. He clamped his mouth onto the glass, gulping the sickly sweet mixture down. Half of it dribbled down his chin, soaking into his cashmere collar, but he got enough down.

“Get the glucose gel from my kit,” I threw over my shoulder to the young guard. “The blue tube. Squeeze it into his cheek pocket. Rub it into the mucosa.”

The guard obeyed instantly, his earlier arrogance completely gone.

I turned my back on the dying mobster for three seconds to grab the autoinjector from the table. I held it up to the light of the chandelier.

It was disguised with a custom label: *BPC-157 / TB-500 Peptide Complex.* But beneath the adhesive paper, where the clear plastic window showed the plunger mechanism, the distinctive orange dial of an ultra-rapid insulin pen was unmistakable. The manufacturer’s tiny embossed serial code had been half-scratched off with a razor blade.

“Amateur work,” I murmured under my breath. “Or arrogant work.”

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the penthouse swung open.

Footsteps clattered against the entryway floor—sharp, aggressive, heavy leather soles.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

The man who walked in was ten years younger than Luca, with the same sharp jawline and predatory eyes, but none of Luca’s calm discipline. Marco Moretti. Luca’s younger brother and the street boss of their West Side operations. Behind him were two more armed men, their coats dripping with melted snow.

Marco’s eyes took in the scene in half a second: his brother slumped over a table, covered in sticky juice and cold sweat, Dante holding his head, and me holding a medical injector like a weapon.

Marco drew his weapon in a fluid, practiced motion, the barrel pointing directly between my eyes.

“Back away from him,” Marco snarled. “Right now, or I paint this ceiling with your brains.”

“Marco, wait!” Dante bellowed, stepping between the gun and my chest.

“Get out of the way, Dante!” Marco barked, his finger tightening on the trigger. “The Valenti family sent this bitch! I told Luca not to hire outside personnel! Look at him—she poisoned him!”

“She didn’t poison him, Marco!” Dante roared, standing his ground, his own weapon still in his holster. “She just saved his life!”

“Bullshit!”

“Put the gun down, Marco,” a voice rasped.

It was weak. It sounded like gravel scraping against iron.

Everyone stopped.

Luca was pushing himself up from the table. His knuckles were white against the edge of the wood, his chest heaving, but the sugar was already hitting his bloodstream. His vision was clearing. His eyes, dark and bottomless as an open grave, locked directly onto his younger brother.

“Put... the gun... down,” Luca repeated, each word dragged out with terrifying effort.

Marco slowly lowered the muzzle, though his eyes remained wild, flickering between Luca and Vanessa, who was cowering near the Scotch cabinet.

“Luca... what happened to you?” Marco asked, stepping forward, his voice cracking. “You look like a corpse.”

Luca slowly turned his head. He didn't look at Marco. He didn't look at Dante.

He looked at Vanessa.

Vanessa swallowed hard, a tiny whimper escaping her lips. “Luca... my love, she’s setting me up. You know Dr. Sterling gave me that pen. He told me it would cure your morning tremors. I didn’t know it was insulin! How would I know? I love you!”

Luca looked at the autoinjector lying on the table. Then he looked down at his own trembling hands, which were slowly regaining their steady composure.

“Emma,” Luca said softly.

“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“Is Dr. Sterling an endocrinologist?”

“No,” I replied evenly, folding my arms across my chest. “According to the medical records your agency sent me, Dr. Julian Sterling is a private plastic surgeon who runs an anti-aging clinic in the Gold Coast.”

Luca closed his eyes for five long seconds. When he opened them, the fog of the medical crisis was completely gone. In its place was something infinitely more terrifying: pure, calculated, ice-cold retribution.

“Dante,” Luca whispered.

“Yes, boss.”

“Lock down the penthouse. Disconnect the elevators. Take Vanessa’s phone, her passport, and her jewelry.”

“Luca, no! Please!” Vanessa shrieked as Dante stepped toward her.

“And Dante?” Luca added, his voice dropping an octave lower.

“Sir?”