Chapter 4 - The PreparationThe next fourteen hours were a blur of grueling physical therapy, legal strategy, and relentless determination.
Dr. Alan didn't leave the mansion. He stayed through the night, supervising specialized neuromuscular stimulation protocols while Tessa applied hot compresses to my spasming leg muscles. Every time the pain threatened to overwhelm me, every time my arms shook from supporting my weight on the parallel bars we had set up in the master hallway, I thought of Arya's smug face and Dominic's corporate betrayal.
They thought I was finished. They thought the lion was toothless just because he was caged.
By 5:00 a.m., I had taken three staggering, supported steps using a heavy steel walker and the combined strength of Tessa and Dr. Alan holding my knees steady. My legs felt like lead pillars filled with hot coals, but they moved. The neural pathways were firing.
"That's enough for tonight," Dr. Alan panted, wiping sweat from his forehead as we helped me back into my wheelchair. "If you push harder, you'll tear the muscle fibers before tomorrow."
"No," I gritted out, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. "We go again in three hours."
Tessa handed me a towel and a glass of electrolytes. Her hands were steady, her expression calm. "You're going to shock them, Mr. Corvino."
"Not just shock them, Tessa," I replied, my voice hard as granite. "I'm going to take back everything they stole."
At 7:00 a.m., Marcus Thorne returned with an immaculate, custom-tailored bespoke suit. It had been altered slightly to accommodate my posture and the hidden leg braces we had fitted beneath the trousers.
When I rolled out of my dressing room, fully suited, my hair neatly combed, and my shoulders squared, Marcus actually whistled softly.
"If I didn't know you were paralyzed twenty-four hours ago, I'd swear you just stepped off a yacht in Monte Carlo," Marcus said approvingly.
"The suit makes the man, Marcus," I replied, adjusting my cuffs. "The mind makes the empire."
At 8:30 a.m., my private black bulletproof Maybach pulled out of the Greenwich estate gates, heading straight for the gleaming glass skyscraper of Corvino Holdings in lower Manhattan.
Inside the car, I sat in the back seat, my legs locked into lightweight titanium orthotic braces that extended from my hips to my ankles, strapped securely beneath my trousers. My hands gripped the handles of a heavy titanium cane.
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"You ready for this?" Marcus asked, watching me closely.
"I was born for this," I said.
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