Luca looked from the vial in my hand to the doctor, his eyes darkening.

“This is ridiculous,” Luca said, turning to the two guards behind him. “The maid is trying to frame me. She’s been paid by the Boston North End crew to tear this family apart.”

The guards did not move.

One of them, an older man named Vincent who had served Alexander’s father, looked closely at the blue vial.

“Vincent,” Luca said, his voice rising in pitch. “Disarm Marcus. Now.”

Vincent looked at Alexander, then back to Luca.

“The boss hasn’t given that order, Luca,” Vincent said quietly.

“The boss is dying!” Luca shouted, his composure finally cracking. “Look at him! He can barely sit upright. The family needs a leader tonight, not a corpse.”

“I am not dead yet,” Alexander said.

He gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced his body upward.

I reached out to support his elbow, feeling the immense strain in his muscles.

He stood, his tall frame towering over the desk, his chest rising and falling with heavy, painful breaths.