A7.Elena’s knuckles turned white around the pile of fresh linens in her arms. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths, her eyes darting toward Vanessa before settling back on me.

Elena’s knuckles turned white around the pile of fresh linens in her arms. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths, her eyes darting toward Vanessa before settling back on me.

"She’s in the staff quarters, sir," Elena said, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with an accent honed in the concrete alleys of Pilsen. "She’s reading."

"Bring her up," I commanded. My voice lacked its former booming authority, but the residual weight of my name—Julian Mercer—still carried enough gravity to freeze the room.

Vanessa stepped between us, her hand resting delicately on my blanket-draped shoulder. Her touch felt icy, sending a violent shiver down my spine. "Julian, darling, you’re exhausting yourself. You need rest, not the presence of domestic staff’s children. Dr. Harris, please tell him."

"Actually, Miss Vale," Dr. Harris said, adjusting his spectacles, "stress management is vital, but Mr. Mercer's fluctuating vitals aren't correlated with fatigue. Something in his metabolic panel keeps spiking every seventy-two hours."

"That’s enough, Doctor," Vanessa snapped, her cool facade slipping for a fraction of a second, exposing a razor-thin edge of desperation. "We pay you to heal him, not to throw around absurd poison theories."

"I never said the word poison, Miss Vale," Dr. Harris replied quietly.

The silence that followed was suffocating. I locked eyes with Vanessa. She caught herself, quickly smoothing her silk dress and smiling that practiced, perfect smile. "I’m just worried, Julian. You know how people take advantage of your position. Especially now."

"Elena," I said, ignoring Vanessa completely. "Bring the girl."

Five minutes later, the heavy oak door creaked open again. A small girl, no older than seven, stepped into the bedroom. She wore a faded blue Chicago Cubs cap pulled low over dark, wavy hair. When she lifted her chin, the blood in my veins ran cold—not from my mysterious illness, but from absolute recognition.

She had my jawline. My storm-gray eyes. The subtle, defiant tilt of the chin that I saw every morning in the mirror before my body betrayed me.

"This is Sofia," Elena murmured, keeping a protective hand on the girl's shoulder.

Sofia looked around the vast room—the blinking heart monitors, the velvet drapes, the silver trays—without a hint of fear. She looked at me, her eyes narrowing in that precise, analytical way I evaluated rival bosses before sit-downs.

"You look cold," Sofia said plainly.

A soft chuckle escaped my throat, the first genuine sound of amusement to leave my mouth in months. "I am cold, kiddo."

"My mom makes warm cinnamon tea when I'm sick," she said, taking a step closer despite Elena's gentle tug. "Your tea smells funny. Like bitter almonds."

Vanessa’s reaction was instantaneous. "That is absurd! She’s just a child, Julian. Why are we listening to the rambling of a toddler?"

"She isn't rambling," Dr. Harris interrupted, his tone suddenly sharp. He walked over to the nightstand where a porcelain mug of herbal tea sat—tea that Vanessa personally brewed for me every single evening at 8:00 p.m. without fail. He picked it up, sniffing it cautiously. "Potassium cyanide has an almond scent, but in microscopic doses... synthetic thallium compounds can mimic it. They linger in hot liquids."

Vanessa's face went entirely pale. "Are you accusing me? I am the daughter of Arthur Vale! My family built the shipping docks your syndicate uses! Why would I harm my own fiancé?"

"Because an engagement doesn't secure the empire, Vanessa," I rasped, the pieces of the puzzle violently snapping into place. "A widow's inheritance does. If I die before the wedding, my holdings go to my syndicate brothers. But if I die after we sign the joint asset agreement next week... everything transfers to you."

Vanessa looked at me, then at Dr. Harris, and finally at Elena and Sofia. Her warm, elegant demeanor evaporated, replaced by the ruthless political instinct of the Vale crime family.

"You're hallucinating, Julian. The fever is getting to your head," she said smoothly, taking her designer handbag from the chair. "I'm going to call my father's private medical team. They will handle this properly."

"You aren't leaving this mansion, Vanessa," I said, reaching under my pillow for the sleek, black Sig Sauer I kept hidden.

My fingers brushed against empty velvet.

The gun was gone.

Vanessa smiled, a slow, venomous curl of her lips as she pulled the firearm from her own bag. "Did you really think I wouldn't check? You're weak, Julian. You can barely hold a pen, let alone run Chicago. My father and your lieutenants—Dominic and Mateo—have already agreed. The transfer of power happens tonight."

Before she could raise the barrel, the massive oak doors were thrown open. Dominic, my second-in-command, stepped into the room, flanked by four armed guards.

"Dominic," Vanessa said, her voice dripping with triumph. "He knows. End it now."

Dominic looked at me, then at the terrified Elena shielding Sofia behind her back. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached inside, and pulled out a heavy silver pocket watch—the exact watch I had given him when we took control of the North Side ten years ago.