Gabriel’s hospital bed rolled smoothly into the threshold, blocking the exit entirely. He looked like an ancient warlord holding court over the ruins of his own kingdom—pale, sweating, his shirt stained with his own blood, but holding a weapon with terrifying, unshakable stability.

Vincent, still pinned beneath Luca’s knee on the Persian rug, slowly stopped smiling. The color drained from his face as he looked up at his older cousin.

“Gabe...” Vincent stammered, his polished corporate composure finally cracking into naked fear. “Gabe, wait. Let’s talk about this. We’re family. We can restructure everything—fifty-fifty split on the shipping ports, the real estate portfolios—'

“Shut your mouth, Vincent,” Gabriel said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the marrow of our bones.

Gabriel shifted the submachine gun slightly, resting the barrel across his lap. He didn't pull the trigger. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his presence filled the room, suffocating any remaining hope Vincent had of talking his way out of the trap.

“Fifteen years,” Gabriel continued, his slate eyes boring into Vincent’s soul. “I took the bullets. I sat in the interrogation rooms. I built the walls around this family so you could go to Ivy League schools, wear Italian suits, and play CEO. And you couldn't even wait for me to die naturally before you put a knife in my spine.”

“You were holding us back!” Vincent snapped, panic finally overriding his caution as he realized there was no escape. “The old ways are dead, Gabriel! The commission doesn't want a bloody butcher running the streets anymore—they want legitimacy! They want me!”

“And now you’ll get it,” Gabriel said coldly. “From a prison cell six floors beneath ground level.”

He looked up at Luca. “Tie him up and secure him in the armory vault. Then call District Attorney Vance directly. Tell him the Moretti family is ready to hand over every ledger, every offshore account, and every shell corporation in exchange for a federal witness protection package for anyone who isn't wearing a traitor's badge.”

Luca blinked in surprise. “Boss... the whole empire? You’re turning it all over?”

“The empire was built on loyalty,” Gabriel said, his gaze shifting momentarily toward me before returning to Vincent. “Once the foundation rots, the whole building has to come down. I’d rather burn it to ash than let a parasite like Vincent inherit the throne.”

Luca nodded grimly, hauling Vincent roughly to his feet by the collar of his expensive suit and dragging him screaming down the corridor toward the armory.

As the echoes of Vincent’s frantic protests faded down the fifty-eighth-floor hallway, the adrenaline finally drained out of my system, leaving my knees feeling weak and hollow. I leaned back against the edge of the mahogany desk, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

Gabriel sat silently in his hospital bed, his massive shoulders slumping slightly as the sheer physical toll of the past hour caught up with him. His breathing was heavy, shallow, and ragged.

I stepped forward, checking the IV bag hanging from the rolling pole beside him. The antibiotic drip was nearly empty, and the surgical dressing on his lower back was soaked through with fresh drainage.

“You’re bleeding again,” I said quietly, pulling a fresh pair of sterile gloves from my pocket.

Gabriel offered a faint, tired smirk. “I’ve had worse days.”

“You’re septic, your lumbar spine is compromised, and you just dragged yourself through a hallway gunfight like a lunatic,” I scolded, gently guiding his wheelchair-bed back toward the master suite. “If you don't let me prep you for an emergency helicopter transfer to a real trauma center right now, you won't live long enough to see Vincent’s trial.”

Gabriel didn't fight me this time. He let out a slow, rumbling sigh, leaning his head back against the pillow as we re-entered the ruined, bullet-riddled bedroom.

“Will I walk again?” he asked softly, his voice stripped of all bravado, leaving only the raw, vulnerable humanity of a man staring down the permanent consequences of betrayal.

I paused, looking down at the medical charts and the neurological assessment notes I had compiled over the past few hours. The damage Vincent’s hired surgeon had done to his lumbar spine was severe, but caught early enough—and treated by specialists who weren't trying to murder him—there was a narrow, fighting chance.

“It’s going to take months of painful physical therapy, major corrective surgery, and a lot of stubbornness,” I told him honestly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Fortunately, you happen to be the most stubborn patient I’ve ever met.”

Gabriel held my gaze for a long moment, a slow, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes.

“Resign from your agency tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Name your price. Become my permanent private physician.”

I shook my head, walking over to the phone to dial the emergency medical evacuation team.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, turning back with a confident smile. “You couldn't afford my hazard pay.”