"I insulted Chicago's paralyzed mob boss on day one—unaware the man who bombed him just named me."

Rolling through the shattered doorway, wearing an immaculate black suit, his broad shoulders squared, his icy blue eyes holding an absolute, terrifying authority that made the room drop into a freezing silence, was Desmond.

Arthur Vance stumbled backward against his desk, dropping his glass of scotch onto the carpet, his face turning an ugly, mottled shade of paper-white.

"Gallagher...!" Arthur stammered, his voice cracking into a high, frantic squeak. "You... you can't be here! This is a private hospital!"

Desmond drove his motorized wheelchair smoothly to the center of the office, stopping two feet from Arthur’s desk. He didn't draw a weapon. The sheer, freezing weight of his presence was enough to make Arthur’s hands tremble violently.

"You called me a crippled mobster, Arthur," Desmond spoke softly. His baritone carried across the silent office like a rolling wave of thunder.

"Listen to me, Desmond!" Arthur begged, dropping onto his knees flat on the carpet, holding his hands up in frantic surrender. "It was a mistake! The Genovese family forced me to set up the agency! They threatened my license! I'll give you the private ledgers! I'll sign over Apex Healthcare!"

Desmond pulled out a thick leather binder, tossing it flat onto the desk in front of Arthur’s face.

"Your private ledgers were seized by federal marshals twenty minutes ago, Arthur," Desmond revealed deadpan, every word dropped like a block of iron. "And as for the Genovese family... their primary board members were arrested at the docks an hour ago."

Arthur gasped, his jaw sagging open in total, speech-bound horror.

I took one slow step forward, looking down at the man who had tried to use my life as a pawn in his dark war.

"You thought Desmond was broken because he sat in a wheelchair under a blanket, Uncle Arthur," I said, my hazel eyes shining with absolute, unshakeable pride. "You forgot that a king on a throne is still a king."

Two uniformed Federal Marshals, accompanied by two Chicago homicide detectives, stepped into the office, slapping heavy steel handcuffs around Arthur Vance’s wrists with an iron snap.

CLICK. CLICK.

Arthur wept pathetically as he was dragged flat across the carpet toward the elevator in chains, his medical career, wealth, and freedom completely destroyed forever.

Desmond turned his wheelchair slowly toward me, extending his broad, warm hand.

I walked up to him, taking his hand into mine, interlacing our fingers under the bright office light.