A four-year-old girl touched a blind mafia boss’s eyes and whispered, “I can heal you.” But when she revealed what her mother knew, his fiancée went pale and grabbed the child’s wrist, exposing a lie that had already stolen four years of his life.

I didn't return to the estate with Isabella.

Using my phone's voice activation, I summoned my personal bodyguard, Mateo—a silent, hulking man who had served my father before me and owed zero allegiance to Isabella's family.

We left Isabella standing on the curb in Midtown, her excuses echoing uselessly against the glass towers.

Mateo drove my armored sedan to a private clinic on the Upper East Side.

Dr. Henry Chen, a neurological specialist who had treated my family for two decades, met us in the basement entrance.

"Dominic," Henry said, guiding me into a sterile consultation room. "What happened? Mateo said it was urgent."

I sat in the leather chair, leaning forward, my hands resting on my cane. "Henry, six months ago, after the attack, who brought you my neurological scans?"

"Isabella," Henry replied without hesitation. "She brought the digital files from Manhattan General, along with the surgical recommendation."

"And what did those files say?"

"That your optic nerves were crushed beyond repair. Inoperable trauma. Any surgical intervention carried an eighty percent risk of fatal brain hemorrhaging."

I took a deep, shaky breath. "I want you to scan my eyes right now. Fresh scans. Independent equipment."

Henry was quiet for a long moment. I heard the rustle of his white lab coat as he pulled over his diagnostic tools.

For forty-five minutes, Henry conducted a series of cold, precise examinations—flashing lights I couldn't perceive, applying sensors to my temples, measuring nerve impulses.

When he finished, he sat heavily in his office chair.

He didn't speak for nearly two minutes.

"Henry?" I pressed softly.

"Dominic," Henry whispered, his voice shaking with anger. "Your optic nerves aren't crushed. They're compressed by a minor blood clot and localized inflammation—a standard complication from head trauma."

My chest seized. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying the medical files Isabella handed me six months ago were forged," Henry said bitterly. "Your blindness isn't permanent. A simple, ninety minute micro-vascular procedure could have restored your sight four months ago."

I closed my eyes, a cold, blinding rage sweeping through my veins like liquid mercury.

She hadn't just lied about Elena.

Isabella had deliberately kept me dark, helpless, and dependent on her so she and her brother could assume control of the Moretti syndicate while I sat blind in a golden room.