Ninety-nine doctors had declared my legs dead, and the people closest to me had quietly buried every reason I had to keep fighting

The executive parlor on the third floor was designed to intimidate. Its dark mahogany walls, floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass, and intimidating leather chairs had broken the morale of corporate executives and syndicate bosses alike.

When I pushed the double doors open and walked into the room unassisted, the four men seated around the long conference table froze mid-sentence.

These weren't low-level thugs like Julian’s mercenaries; these were the heavy hitters—board members of the Pacific Syndicate, men who controlled the import lines from Tokyo to Vancouver and had silently backed Julian’s hostile takeover under the assumption that I was a permanent invalid.

Arthur Pendelton, the eldest and most ruthless of the syndicate elders, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his jaw slack as he stared at me standing at the head of the table.

“Caleb...” Pendelton stammered, gripping the edge of his briefcase. “We heard rumors, of course, but... doctors said your spine was beyond repair.”

“Doctors study medicine, Arthur. They don't study survival,” I said smoothly, pulling out the massive high-backed leather chair at the center of the table.

I didn't sit right away. I placed both hands flat on the mahogany surface, leaning forward, letting my shadow fall across the table like a guillotine blade.

“You all thought the Marino empire was ripe for the picking,” I continued, my voice low, steady, and terrifyingly calm. “You watched Julian move his pieces into position. You signed off on his shell companies, and you waited for me to quietly rot away in the garden.”

“Now, hold on, Caleb,” another board member named Vance—no relation to my head of security—protested nervously, raising a hand. “Business is business. Julian presented himself as the operational head—”

“Julian is currently wearing an orange jumpsuit in a maximum-security federal holding facility, wondering if his cellmate shares his taste in interior design,” I snapped, cutting him off with a flick of my wrist. “And you four are sitting in my house, using my air, trying to figure out how to divide the scraps of a carcass that isn't dead.”

The room fell into a suffocating, dead silence.

Pendelton swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the cool air conditioning. “What do you want, Caleb? Name your terms. Do you want a buyout? A larger percentage of the container tariffs?”

“I don't want a percentage, Arthur,” I said, straightening up to my full height. “I want absolute submission. Starting today, every single ledger, every offshore account, and every proxy shipping line you share with Julian’s underground network is being transferred directly to my personal oversight. If I find a single hidden dollar, or a single container moving through my port without my explicit written approval, I won't just lock you out of the syndicate.”

I paused, leaning down so my eyes locked directly onto Pendelton’s terrified gaze.

“I’ll feed you to the coast guard piece by piece.”

Pendelton stared at me for three agonizing seconds before slowly, shakily reaching out to slide his corporate portfolio across the mahogany table toward my side.