The glass paperweight had missed Luke’s head by an inch, shattering against the mahogany bookshelf and raining razor-sharp crystal shards across the Persian rug. I sat in my custom, leather-upholstered titanium wheelchair, chest heaving, the phantom pain in my shins flaring like a blowtorch.

The press had a field day with the Vance brothers. Syndicate Kingpin Cleared by Federal Corruption Probe; Prosecutor Brother Arrested for Embezzlement. The headlines ran across every Chicago newspaper for a week, but inside the estate, life had quieted into something dangerously close to peace.

Until the lawyer arrived.

His name was Harrington, a silver-haired vulture in a bespoke three-piece suit who had handled our family’s trusts since my father’s days. He sat in my study, unrolling a thick vellum document across the mahogany desk that Emma had recently polished to a mirror finish.

"Your father’s final addendum, Daniel," Harrington said, his voice dry as parchment. "Filed in the event of total incapacitation or criminal conviction of the primary heir."

I leaned back in my titanium chair, my legs still humming with the tentative, nerve-wracking burn of recovery. "Cut to the chase, Harrington. I’m busy."

"The estate, the shipping terminals, and the remaining liquid capital are tied to a strict operational clause," Harrington continued, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "To maintain legal ownership of the Vance holdings, the head of the house must be married within three years of the initial incapacitation date, or the entire portfolio reverts to a blind public trust."

Silence dropped over the room. I glanced toward the doorway where Emma was organizing a stack of logistics manifests. She stopped cold, her pen hovering mid-air.