Chapter 9
The silence in the private suite was deafening. The complete lack of background music made the soft, rustling sounds of Rocco shifting his weight in the wheelchair incredibly loud. June took a slow step backward, her heart hammering against her ribs, sensing a massive, tectonic shift in the atmosphere of the room.
Rocco gripped the armrests. His knuckles turned white beneath the sharp, elegant tattoos decorating his hands. He took a slow, deep breath, his broad chest expanding against his tailored dark shirt.
He focused his mind, pushing past the residual, phantom pain that had kept him bound to the chair for months. The medication had been withheld, yes, but his body had been healing secretly, fighting a war against the sabotage. The violent spasm had been the final hurdle, a breaking point forced upon him by the withdrawal. But June had forced him to breathe. She had forced oxygen back into his locked muscles.
With a slow, agonizing groan that vibrated from the very depths of his chest, Rocco pushed downward on the armrests.
The heavy metal of the wheelchair creaked in protest.
Lucia lowered her hands from her tear-stained face. Her eyes widened into massive, horrified circles. "No... that's impossible. The doctors said..."
Rocco’s polished leather shoes pressed flat against the Persian rug. The muscles in his thighs, dormant but incredibly powerful, engaged with a visible, trembling intensity. He slowly, deliberately straightened his legs.
He rose.
The towering, deeply masculine frame of the Mafia Boss lifted entirely out of the wheelchair. He stood at his full, intimidating height, casting a long, terrifying shadow over the room. The bright, natural sunlight illuminated him like a dark god of vengeance. He swayed for a fraction of a second, his fair, rosy skin pale with the immense physical effort, but he quickly found his center of gravity and locked his knees. He stood perfectly, undeniably upright.
Grant Mercer, bleeding on the carpet, looked up from the collapsed shelves. His swollen eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing terror as he watched the man he had just called a cripple stand tall above him.
Edwin Cole dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against the floor in absolute, terrified submission.
Rocco looked down at his own legs, feeling the solid, unforgiving floor beneath his feet for the first time in six months. A cold, dangerous satisfaction settled over his angular features. The charming, romantic look of the loose strands falling over his forehead now framed the face of an executioner.
He slowly turned his piercing, cold eyes toward Lucia, who was shrinking back against the therapy bench, trembling so violently her diamond jewelry rattled.
"The act is over," Rocco said. His voice was dead calm. He spoke incredibly slowly, keeping his volume low, yet the sheer, apocalyptic menace in his tone filled every corner of the vast suite. "It’s time for you to pay the price."
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Lucia’s face drained completely of all color. The fair, rosy flush vanished, leaving her looking like a porcelain corpse. She opened her mouth to scream, to beg, to offer any excuse that might save her life, but her vocal cords were entirely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of her doom.
The king was no longer seated on a throne with wheels. He was standing, and his reign of blood was about to begin.
