The Mafia Boss’s Daughter Had Not Walked in Six Years—Until a Shy Maid Noticed What Every Doctor Missed

The silence in the parlor felt like a stretched wire ready to snap.

Dr. Vance swallowed hard, his face turning from bright red to a sickly, pale yellow. His hand tightened around the silver handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white.

"Adrian... my dear friend," Vance stammered, attempting a nervous, booming laugh that died instantly in his throat. "You... you cannot seriously be considering the word of a thirty-shilling-a-month servant over a licensed fellow of the Royal College of Physicians!"

"I am considering the fact," Adrian said, taking two slow steps toward Vance, "that my daughter has not taken a single step in six years."

"Because she is crippled!" Vance yelled, his voice rising in panic. "The fire burned her spinal nerves!"

"Then let us test the bottle," Adrian said. He turned to Mr. Hayes. "Hayes."

"Yes, Mr. Vale?" Hayes answered, his voice shaky for the first time since I had met him.

"Send a messenger to Saint Jude’s Infirmary. Have Dr. Miller brought here immediately. Tell him to bring his chemical testing kit."

"Dr. Miller?!" Vance gasped, stepping backward toward the parlor door. "That old charity quack?! He doesn't know modern pharmacology! This is an insult! I will not allow my professional integrity to be dragged through the mud by a laundry girl and a street doctor!"

"You will stay in this house until Dr. Miller arrives, Vance," Adrian said smoothly. He didn't raise his voice, but two tall, broad-shouldered men from his personal security detail—men who usually guarded his private docks—stepped into the doorway behind Vance, blocking the exit.

"This is illegal restraint!" Vance shouted, sweating profusely now. "I have patients waiting! I have business with the city council!"

"Your business can wait," Adrian murmured.

He turned back to me, his dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

"Clara," he said.