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 evening hours bled away in a tense, suffocating silence.

Vanessa returned from her downtown meetings just before dinner, gliding into my bedroom with a radiant, flawless smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She brought me a glass of fresh lemon water on a silver tray, her diamond ring sparkling under the bedside lamp.

“Drink this, darling,” she murmured, resting her hand on my shoulder. “It will soothe your throat before the specialist arrives from New York.”

I looked at the glass, noting the tiny, microscopic condensation ring around the rim—the exact signature of a substance introduced at near-freezing temperatures.

“Thank you, Vanessa,” I said smoothly, taking the tray from her hands.

She watched me with intense, predatory focus, waiting for me to take a sip. Her breathing was slightly shallow, her pupils dilated with a sickening mix of excitement and anticipation.

Instead of drinking, I set the tray down gently on the nightstand. “I’ll drink it later. I want to talk about the wedding.”

Vanessa’s smile flickered, annoyance flashing across her features before she smoothed it over. “There’s nothing left to talk about, Christian. Everything is set. The cathedral downtown, the orchestra, the guest list of five hundred elites. You just need to focus on getting well.”

“Oh, I’ll be well,” I replied, my voice carrying a double meaning that went completely over her head. “In fact, I feel like a completely new man today.”

At 9:00 p.m., the new private nurse arrived from New York. Her name was Nurse Sterling—a tall, severe-looking woman with clipped hair, cold grey eyes, and a New York accent that cut through the silence like a scalpel. She didn't introduce herself to the staff, and she immediately took charge of the IV pump beside my bed, checking the digital flow rate with practiced precision.

I watched her through half-closed eyes. She was Vanessa’s plant. A professional cleaner hired to ensure the dosage was doubled tonight.

Dr. Harris had quietly slipped out of the mansion hours earlier, taking the contaminated IV bag and the glass vial to a trusted underground lab to secure ironclad chemical proof for the commission.

By midnight, the mansion grew deathly quiet.

The staff had retired to the service wing. The guards stationed outside my door stood at attention, completely unaware that the real threat was sitting inside the master suite.

Elena and Lily were locked safely in the third-floor staff quarters, guarded by two of my most loyal capos—men who answered only to me, men who would die before letting anyone touch my bloodline.

1:45 a.m.

Nurse Sterling checked my vitals, adjusted the drip line, and whispered, “Try to rest, Mr. Vance. The night is long.”

She turned off the overhead lights, leaving only the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, and stepped out into the hallway to wait with Vanessa.

I lay in the dark, listening to the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor.

2:00 a.m.

The temperature in the room began to drop.

2:10 a.m.

The first prickle of ice crawled up my arms.

I didn’t panic. Dr. Harris had administered a heavy dose of atropine and thermal stabilizers earlier that evening, neutralizing ninety percent of the toxin before it could paralyze my nervous system. But to anyone watching the monitors—or standing outside the door—I would appear to be suffering the exact same violent seizure as every night before.

2:15 a.m.

The door clicked open.

Footsteps padded softly across the Persian rug. Two sets of footsteps.

I kept my eyes closed, my breathing ragged and shallow, letting my teeth slam together in a simulated shudder.

Vanessa’s voice drifted through the dark, cold and triumphant.

“Is he under?”

“Completely,” Nurse Sterling replied. “The final dose hit his system ten minutes ago. His core temperature is crashing right on schedule.”

Vanessa stepped closer to the bed. I felt the shadow of her body fall across my face.

“Good,” Vanessa whispered, her voice dripping with a malice that sent a shiver down my spine—real shiver this time. “In six weeks, the lawyers file the probate papers, the estate splits between my father’s syndicate and my accounts, and this wretched city finally belongs to the Vale family.”

She leaned down, her breath hot against my ear.

“Sleep well, my love,” she hissed softly. “You were a wonderful monster. But empires belong to the cold.”

She reached out, her manicured hand hovering over my face to close my eyes.

Suddenly, my eyes snapped open.