THEY WATCHED THEIR BILLIONAIRE MOB BOSS DROWN IN FRONT OF 187 SILENT GUESTS—UNTIL HIS NOBODY SECRETARY DIVED IN AND EXPOSED THE MOST TERRIFYING CONSPIRACY IN CHICAGO

The alert was classified as Code Black—the highest syndicate emergency protocol.

Marcus Kane’s remaining loyalist factions, realizing their leader was captured, had launched a scorched-earth offensive across the city. Three Vescari supply warehouses were currently on fire, and a heavily armed convoy was moving toward the private electrical substation that powered the Vescari estate and its secure servers.

Julian’s eyes instantly shifted from vulnerable warmth back to tactical steel.

"Viktor!" Julian barked into the intercom.

"Boss," Viktor’s voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and strained. "Kane's men have hit the North Side terminal. We're outnumbered three to one at the docks. Victoria managed to slip her cuffs during the transport chaos—she's joined up with Kane's strike team. They're heading for the Manor vault."

"Lock down the estate perimeter," Julian ordered. "Activate the automated defense grid. I'm on my way."

"Boss, your legs—the doctor said you can't endure another tactical deployment without risking permanent spinal nerve damage!" Viktor pleaded.

"If they breach the vault, I won't have a life to worry about," Julian snapped, cutting the connection.

He turned his chair toward the private elevator at the back of the penthouse. "Clara, I am sending you to Wisconsin with a security escort. You will be reunited with Leo within four hours."

"No," I said instantly, stepping in front of his wheelchair, blocking the elevator path.

Julian frowned, his silver eyes flashing with warning. "This isn't a board meeting, Clara. This is a bloodbath. You've done enough."

"You protected my brother when you didn't even know who he was," I said fiercely, looking directly into his eyes without backing down an inch. "You gave him his life back. I am not going to run away to a safe house while you go fight your sister and Marcus Kane's army alone."

"You could die tonight," Julian warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Then I die beside you," I replied with absolute certainty.

Julian stared at me for three long seconds. A slow, breathtaking smirk spread across his face—a mixture of pride, disbelief, and fierce admiration.

"You truly are insane, Clara Ross," he murmured.

"I learned from the best, Mr. Vescari."

Julian reached into the hidden cabinet beneath his desk and pulled out a specialized carbon-fiber tactical rig. It was an advanced, motorized exoskeleton designed for lower-limb support—an experimental prototype his private medical research team had been developing for the past eighteen months.

"Help me strap this on," Julian said, his voice tightening with determination. "It only has forty minutes of battery power, and the neural feedback will hurt like absolute hell. But tonight, I am not fighting from a chair."

My breath caught in my throat. "Julian, the neural strain could paralyze your upper body if the circuit overloads."

"Then we had better finish this in thirty-five minutes," he replied.

I knelt beside him, working quickly with practiced precision. I buckled the titanium-reinforced struts along his thighs, calves, and lower spine, locking the micro-hydraulic actuators into place. I connected the cranial neural sensor behind his right ear.

Julian gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning dead white as the neural sync engaged. A low, agonizing groan tore from his throat, his entire muscular frame trembling under the surge of electrical current stimulating his dormant spinal nerves.

Veins bulged along his neck. His teeth ground together with a terrifying force.

"Sync... complete," Julian gasped, sweat instantly drenching his brow.

Slowly, impossibly, Julian Vescari planted his boots against the polished marble floor.

The hydraulic motors whirred with a high-pitched whine.

He rose.

Six feet, two inches of pure, terrifying power.

Julian stood at his full height for the first time in over two years, his broad shoulders squared, towering over me in the dim light of the penthouse. He looked down at his own hands, then at his boots, a feral, unstoppable fire burning in his silver eyes.