His Fiancée Ordered Flowers for the Paralyzed Mafia Boss’s Funeral While He Was Still Breathing, but the Maid Refused to Leave His Side

Silas backed away from the table, realizing he had lost the room. The capos were glaring at him, their hands instinctively moving toward the weapons concealed beneath their jackets.

"It's a setup!" Silas screamed desperately, pointing a shaking finger at Damian. "He engineered this to get rid of me! He’s weak! He’s a cripple! You’re going to let a man who can't even wipe his own ass run this empire?"

Vivian, realizing the ship was sinking, tried to distance herself. She backed toward the door, her eyes darting frantically around the room for an exit.

"Look at him!" Silas roared, pacing like a caged animal. "He’s broken! He’s nothing but a ghost in a chair! If you follow him, the other families will slaughter us in the streets! We need a strong leader! We need—"

Silas’s rant died abruptly in his throat.

The entire grand hall stopped breathing.

Damian Russo placed his hands firmly on the armrests of his titanium wheelchair. His knuckles turned white. His jaw locked.

Slowly, deliberately, he placed his polished black dress shoes flat against the hardwood floor.

He leaned forward. The muscles in his thighs, dormant for weeks but fully intact, strained against the fabric of his trousers.

With a terrifying, awe-inspiring display of willpower, Damian pushed himself upward.

He didn't stumble. He didn't shake. He stood to his full, towering height of six-foot-three, casting a massive, intimidating shadow across the room.

Silas’s jaw practically unhinged in absolute horror. Vivian let out a strangled, terrified gasp, covering her mouth with her hands.

Damian stood perfectly still, looking down at his treacherous cousin. The man they all thought was a crippled victim was suddenly the most dangerous predator in the room.