"The curvy maid accidentally dropped heated towels on the mafia king’s legs—then he whispered, “Don’t move them,” and she realized something was terribly wrong.

The ballroom held its collective breath.

Marcus’s smirk faltered as Dante gripped the leather armrests. His knuckles turned white. The muscles in his broad shoulders bunched under his tailored tuxedo.

With a slow, agonizing groan of exertion, Dante Vale pushed himself upward.

Don Rossi took a stunned step backward. Vivian’s jaw literally dropped.

Dante’s legs trembled violently. The neurotoxins had ravaged his muscles for seven years, and the sheer pain of bearing his own weight was blinding. But as he locked his knees, Lena slid her arm firmly around his waist, providing the exact physical and emotional support he needed to stabilize.

Dante stood up.

He towered over Marcus. He looked down at Vivian. He was a terrifying, imposing mountain of a man, standing on his own two feet for the first time in nearly a decade.

The silence in the ballroom was absolute. A glass slipped from a waiter’s hand and shattered on the floor, but no one even blinked.

“You were saying, Marcus?” Dante asked, his voice a low, lethal rumble that echoed off the marble walls.

Marcus was pale, his eyes darting frantically around the room, realizing his entire coup was crumbling to dust. “Boss... I... we were just concerned for your health.”

“My health is fine,” Dante stated, his grip tightening slightly on Lena’s waist as a spasm shot up his spine. “But yours is failing rapidly, Marcus. I know about the poison. I know about the payout to Dr. Sterling. And I know you ordered the bomb on my yacht seven years ago.”

Chaos erupted. The capos loyal to Dante instantly drew their weapons, aiming them directly at Marcus and Rossi’s men. Rossi’s men drew theirs in response. A hundred guns were suddenly unholstered in the ballroom.

“It’s a lie!” Marcus screamed, backing away. “He’s bluffing! Kill him!”

Dante didn't flinch. He stood tall, anchored by the woman in red.

“If a single shot is fired, this entire hotel goes into lockdown, and nobody leaves alive,” Dante commanded. He looked at Don Rossi. “Take your daughter and leave my city, Rossi. The alliance is dead. If I see either of you again, it’s war.”

Rossi was a pragmatist. He looked at the standing king, looked at the guns, and grabbed Vivian by the arm, dragging her furious, screaming form toward the exit.