The shift in the house was subtle at first, like a slow thaw in a frozen river.

Vincent stopped throwing cups.

He didn't become polite—politeness was as foreign to him as humility—but his hostility lost its sharp, venomous edge. It became a game, a daily test of endurance between two people who refused to give an inch of ground.

“The toast is cold,” he said one morning in early spring, pointing at his plate with his fountain pen.

“It’s not cold,” Nora replied from across the room, where she was dusting the mahogany bookshelves. “It’s cool. There’s a difference.”

“Cool toast is an insult to the bakery.”

“Then complain to the baker. I just carry the plate.”

Dominic walked into the library, stopping midway through the doorway as he watched Vincent take a bite of the 'cool' toast without another word.

Dominic looked at Nora, then at Vincent, his expression unreadable. He cleared his throat, pulling a thick leather folder from his jacket.

“We have a problem in East Boston,” Dominic said, his voice dropping into his business tone. “Frank Morelli called a meeting at the Italian Center on Thursday. He’s inviting the captains from the north end.”

Vincent set his pen down. His face transformed instantly—the difficult, stubborn patient vanished, replaced in a fraction of a second by the cold, calculating intelligence that had built the Hale empire.

“Is he bringing his nephew?” Vincent asked.

“Julian? Yeah,” Dominic said. “Julian’s been telling people that the docks are open for renegotiation. He’s telling them you’re... non-functional.”

Nora moved toward the door, her cleaning cloth tucked under her arm. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

“Stay,” Vincent said.

Nora stopped. Dominic raised his eyebrows.

“Vincent,” Dominic warned quietly. “This is internal.”

“She’s seen me on the floor, Dominic,” Vincent said flatly, his eyes never leaving his associate’s face. “There’s nothing in that folder more private than that. Stay, Nora.”

Nora backed against the wall near the window, her hands folded in front of her. She felt the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere—the air grew colder, heavier, charged with the dangerous electricity of men who made decisions that ended lives.

“Julian’s moving too fast,” Vincent said, tapping his finger against the desk. “He thinks because I’m in this chair, the network’s dead. He doesn't know about the secondary accounts in Cayman, and he doesn't know we still hold the lease on Pier 14.”

“He knows you haven't been seen in public for four months,” Dominic countered. “In our world, absence isn't privacy, Vincent. It’s a vacancy.”

Vincent was silent for a long moment. He looked down at his useless legs, then at his trembling right hand. A cold, dark realization settled over his features.

“They want a show,” Vincent murmured.

“They want to see if you can still sit at the table,” Dominic said. “The annual harbor gala is in six weeks. Every family from New York to Providence is sending a representative. If you don't walk through those doors, Julian will take Pier 14 by Monday morning.”

If you don't walk through those doors.

The words hung in the high-ceilinged room like a sentence of execution.

Vincent looked up slowly, his gaze bypassing Dominic and locking onto Nora, who was standing quietly by the window.

She didn't look pitying. She didn't look worried. She was looking at his hands—those heavy, powerful hands that were currently clenching into fists against his desk.

“Six weeks,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass panels in the bookcase hum faintly.

“Vincent, the doctors said—” Dominic began.

“I don't give a damn what the doctors said,” Vincent interrupted, his eyes still fixed on Nora. “Find Dr. Aris. Tell him to bring the heavy braces. Tell him if he mentions 'realistic expectations' one more time, I’ll have his medical license revoked by sunset.”

Nora took a step forward from the wall. “If you’re going to do this, Mr. Hale, you’re doing it right.”

Dominic stared at her as if she had suddenly spoken in Latin. “Nora, stay out of this.”

“No,” Vincent said, raising a hand to silence his associate. He kept his eyes on Nora. “What does 'right' mean to you, maid?”

Nora walked over to the desk, stopping right across from him. Her wide hazel eyes were bright with a strange, ferocious light.

“It means you don't just stand up for five minutes to show off for a bunch of crooks,” she said, her voice rich and full. “It means you train until you can look every one of those bastards in the eye without your knees shaking. And it means you stop treating your physical therapist like an enemy and start treating him like a drill instructor.”

Vincent stared at her. A slow, terrifying smile—the first real smile she had seen on his face since she arrived—spread across his sharp, dark features.

“Dominic,” Vincent said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Double her salary.”