At thirty-two, I was the youngest mafia boss Chicago had ever feared—and somehow, I was dying in a mansion packed with the best doctors money could buy. Every night at exactly 2:17 a.m., my body turned to ice, while the woman I planned to marry stood beside my bed whispering, “You’re going to be fine,” with a certainty that terrified me more than death.

The morning sun broke over Lake Michigan, casting long, bruised shadows across the terrace, but the warmth of July failed to penetrate the thick glass of my bedroom windows.

I sat propped up against the pillows, a fresh cup of black coffee steaming on the nightstand while Dr. Harris reviewed the revised blood panels on his tablet. The midnight seizure had left my muscles aching as if I had been beaten with lead pipes, but the fog in my brain had cleared.

The enemy had a face. And her name was Vanessa Vale.

“The compound is tetra-ethyl-ammonium derivative,” Dr. Harris said quietly, keeping his voice low so the monitors wouldn't pick up unnecessary frequencies. “It’s extremely rare, synthesized primarily in restricted pharmaceutical labs in Europe. It doesn't show up on standard tox screens unless you specifically run high-performance liquid chromatography. Whoever is giving this to you knows advanced biochemistry.”

“Or she has someone on the outside supplying it,” I said coldly, staring out at the grey expanse of the lake.

“Vanessa?” Dr. Harris asked, though it wasn't really a question. Everyone in the mansion knew the hierarchy, and everyone knew Vanessa’s ambition matched her beauty.

“She’s the only one with unrestricted access to my private quarters, my personal chef, and the locked medical cabinet where the IV saline is stored,” I replied, my fingers curling tightly around the edge of the sheet. “For months, she played the devoted fiancée. She redecorated the east wing, hired the wedding planners, and sat by my bed playing the grieving angel. And all the while, she was dropping poison into my IV drip while whispering sweet nothing into my ear.”

“What are your capos saying?” Dr. Harris asked, glancing toward the door. “Marcus and the others must suspect something.”

“Marcus thinks it’s an internal hit from the Outfit remnants on the South Side,” I answered, a dark shadow crossing my face. “If I tell Marcus that Vanessa is poisoning me, he’ll put a bullet through her head before noon. And as satisfying as that sounds, it’s not enough.”

“You want proof?”

“I want a confession,” I said, my voice dropping into a quiet, menacing register. “I want her to stand before the entire commission and explain why she tried to murder the chairman of the Chicago syndicate.”

Before Dr. Harris could respond, the heavy oak door swung open with practiced smoothness.

Vanessa stepped into the room.

She looked like a high-society magazine cover come to life. She wore a tailored white Chanel suit, her blonde hair pulled back into an immaculate French twist, and a diamond tennis bracelet glittering on her wrist. The picture of grace, elegance, and absolute innocence.

“Good morning, darling,” Vanessa murmured, gliding across the room with effortless poise. She leaned down, pressing a cool, dry kiss against my forehead. Her lips tasted like expensive mints and utter deception. “You look much better this morning. The color is returning to your cheeks.”

I forced my expression into a neutral, tired mask. “The fever broke around dawn.”

“Thank goodness,” she sighed, clasping her hands together with theatrical relief. She turned her gaze toward Dr. Harris, her demeanor instantly shifting into that of the authoritative mistress of the house. “Doctor, I trust my fiancé’s condition is improving? The wedding is only six weeks away, and we simply cannot have him looking like a ghost in the photographs.”

Dr. Harris gave a stiff, professional nod. “We are adjusting his treatment protocol, Miss Vale. Progress is slow, but steady.”

“Good,” she said sharply. She turned back to me, her blue eyes scanning the room before landing on the extra water pitcher sitting on the side table. A tiny, imperceptible twitch of her brow gave her away. “By the way, Christian, I let that new maid—Elena—know that she and her daughter are being relocated to the secondary guest house behind the stables. A Chicago syndicate mansion is no place for a stray child. It’s unseemly.”

My muscles tightened beneath the sheets, but I kept my voice perfectly level. “Elena stays here.”

Vanessa’s smile tightened just a fraction, the mask slipping for a millisecond before her polished charm reasserted itself. “Christian, be reasonable. The staff quarters are already cramped, and that little girl has been wandering around the service halls like a ghost. It’s distracting. Besides, I’ve hired a new private nurse—a specialist from New York—who will be arriving this evening to take over your night monitoring.”

I stared at her, my mind racing. A specialist from New York. Translation: another operative she could control, someone to ensure the midnight poisonings continued without interruption even if Dr. Harris started asking too many questions.

“Is that so?” I asked softly.

“Yes,” Vanessa said, leaning over the bed to straighten my collar with agonizing intimacy. “I only want what’s best for you, darling. Soon, all of this illness will be behind us, and we can finally take our rightful place at the top of the city.”

Our rightful place.