Forty-Two Women Wanted the Dying Mafia Boss's Fortune

Dr. Hart placed the folder on the table and did not open it immediately.

That frightened me more than if she had rushed.

Daniel sat on the edge of the hospital bed. I stood beside him. Elias remained by the door. Grant had arrived ten minutes earlier, and Vincent was recovering two rooms down under guard.

Dr. Hart folded her hands.

"The new biopsy does not show the aggressive terminal disease described in your recent summaries."

Nobody moved.

Daniel's fingers tightened around mine.

"Say that again."

"The tissue we sampled shows a serious inflammatory process. There are abnormal cells, but the specialist reviewing them does not see evidence supporting the terminal diagnosis you were given. We are sending the slides to two additional independent labs because I want confirmation before anyone celebrates."

Daniel stared at her.

"So I'm not dying."

"I did not say that."

His face hardened.

Dr. Hart continued calmly.

"You are medically unstable. Your organs are under stress. You've lost significant weight. Your blood counts are abnormal. Some of that may be related to the underlying condition. Some may be related to treatment. Some may be related to both. What I am saying is that the three-month prognosis is not supported by what we have seen so far."

My eyes burned.

I had no right to cry.

I had known him eight days.

But hope is cruel when you have buried both parents. It enters like light through a cracked door, and the first instinct is not joy.

It is fear that someone will slam the door shut.

Daniel released my hand.

He stood.

Then sat again.

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"Can this be treated?"

"Possibly. Very possibly. But I need the final pathology and a clean review of everything you've been given."

"Could the wrong treatment have made me this sick?"

Dr. Hart chose her words carefully.

"It could have contributed. I am not accusing anyone until we have evidence. But yes, some therapies and medication combinations can cause serious harm when they are unnecessary, poorly coordinated, or not monitored appropriately."

Daniel stared at the floor.

Grant whispered, "Dear God."

Elias's face had become unreadable.

I thought of the advertisement again.

Forty-two women willing to marry a dying man.

A fortune offered for companionship.

A funeral already planned.

All because someone had convinced Daniel that time was gone.

He looked up at Dr. Hart.

"If the next labs agree?"

"Then we stop treating you like a man counting down to death and start treating the condition you actually have."

Something broke across Daniel's face.

Not a smile.

Not yet.

He turned his head toward the window.

I realized he was trying not to let us see him cry.

So I looked away.

That was the kindness he needed.

Grant did the same.

Elias stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Dr. Hart pretended to study the chart.

For a full minute, nobody spoke.

Then Daniel said, "Maya."

I looked back.

His eyes were red.

"Open the curtains."

My throat tightened.

The hospital curtains were already partly open, but I understood.

I pulled them all the way back.

Morning sunlight filled the room.

Daniel watched it spread across the floor.

"I had my coffin picked out," he said.

"That's very organized."

He laughed once, broken and breathless.

Then he covered his face with both hands.

I sat beside him.

This time, I did not ask permission before placing my hand between his shoulders.

He leaned into me.

Not much.

Just enough.

"I told everyone I didn't care," he whispered.

"About dying?"

He nodded.

"I cared."

"I know."

"I was terrified."

"I know."

"I hate that you know."

"I know that, too."

His laugh turned into something dangerously close to a sob.

I stayed beside him until he could breathe again.

By afternoon, Daniel had transformed grief into fury.

It was familiar ground for him.

He ordered Elias to quietly investigate Vale's finances, communications, and relationship with every private clinic Daniel had used.

Grant reviewed legal authorizations, insurance records, and medical releases.

Vincent supplied everything he had gathered.

I kept doing what I had done from the beginning.

I made a list.

The list became a timeline.

The timeline became a map of every moment someone had told Daniel the disease had worsened.

And one name appeared beside almost all of them.

Howard Vale.

But another name kept appearing around the edges.

Not in the medical files.

In Daniel's business calendar.

Marcus Shaw.

Marcus was Daniel's chief financial officer and one of his father's oldest friends. He had managed the legitimate side of the Rhodes empire for twenty-three years. He was sixty-three, respected, discreet, and so trusted that Daniel called him Uncle Marcus even though they were not related.

Three days before Daniel received his terminal prognosis, Marcus had asked him to sign a contingency control agreement.

Two days after the prognosis, the agreement had been executed.

If Daniel became medically incapacitated, Marcus would receive temporary authority over several holding companies until the estate transferred control.

I showed Grant.

His face changed.

"Why wasn't this in the estate briefing?"

"You tell me."

He read the document again.

"Because it's technically a corporate continuity instrument, not an estate document."

"What does that mean in normal language?"

"If Daniel became too sick to make decisions, Marcus could move money, restructure certain assets, approve sales, and appoint interim executives."

"Could he steal the company?"

Grant frowned.

"Not legally."

"That's not what I asked."

He looked at me.

"With enough cooperation inside the organization, he could do tremendous damage before anyone stopped him."

I carried the document to Daniel.

He read it once.

Then again.

"Marcus brought this to me," he said.

"Did you read it?"

He looked offended.

"Of course."

"Did you read it while you were sick?"

His expression shifted.

"Yes."

"Were you taking the medications that made you dizzy?"

"Probably."

"Did anyone else review it?"

"Vale told me stress was dangerous. Marcus said the agreement would keep the businesses stable if I declined suddenly."

"And Grant?"

"I thought Grant had reviewed it."

Grant's face went pale.

"I never saw it."

Daniel stood so abruptly that the chair slid backward.

"Get Marcus here."

Grant looked at Elias.

Elias did not move.

"Sir, if he is involved, bringing him here warns him."

Daniel's eyes were cold.

"Good."

"Daniel," I said.

He looked at me.

"Frightened men destroy evidence," I reminded him.

His jaw flexed.

"You enjoy using my own words against me."

"Very much."

Elias nodded.

"We watch him instead."

Daniel hated it.

But he agreed.

That night, the second pathology review arrived.

It matched the first.

The third arrived at 6:15 the next morning.

Same conclusion.

No evidence supporting the terminal diagnosis Daniel had been given.

Dr. Hart gathered us in his room.

"We have a working diagnosis now," she said. "A severe but treatable inflammatory disorder complicated by medication toxicity and prolonged dehydration. There are still risks. Recovery will not be quick. But based on what we know today, I see no medical basis for telling you that you have three months to live."

Daniel did not speak.

I covered my mouth.

Grant sat down heavily.

Elias looked toward the ceiling.

I saw him blink twice.

Daniel finally whispered, "Treatable."

Dr. Hart nodded.

"Treatable."

He looked at me.

There are moments when a life changes quietly.

No explosion.

No music.

Just one human being looking at another with a future suddenly returned to him.

Daniel held out his hand.

I took it.

"You were right," he said.

"About what?"

"This room needed sunlight."

My eyes filled.

"Your bedroom needed sunlight."

"Every room."

Then Elias's phone rang.

He answered.

His expression sharpened immediately.

"Where?"

A pause.

"Don't approach. Keep eyes on him."

He ended the call.

Daniel looked over.

"Marcus?"

Elias nodded.

"He left his apartment twenty minutes ago. He's at a private airfield in Teterboro."

Grant stood.

"He's running."

"Not yet," Elias said. "The jet hasn't filed a flight plan."

"Who is he meeting?" I asked.

Elias's gaze moved to Daniel.

"Howard Vale."

The room went silent.

Daniel's hand tightened around mine.

For nine days, he had been trying to discover why his doctors could not agree on his medications.

Now two of the men he had trusted most were standing together beside a private jet before sunrise.

Elias waited for instructions.

Daniel's eyes became colder than I had ever seen them.

"Let them board."

Grant stared at him.

"Daniel--"

"I want to know where they think they can go."

Elias nodded and began issuing quiet orders.

Daniel looked at me.

"Still think I should get used to disappointment?"

"Definitely."

His eyebrow lifted.

"Why?"

I squeezed his hand.

"Because you're not getting to die on schedule."

For the first time since I met him, Daniel Rhodes smiled without pain.

That afternoon, he did something no one in the room expected.

He called the funeral home.

Grant offered to handle it. Daniel refused.

He put the call on speaker while I sat beside him and Dr. Hart pretended not to listen from the other side of the room. A polite man answered, asked for Daniel's account number, and then carefully asked whether Daniel wished to change the service date.

Daniel looked at me.

"No," he said. "I want to cancel it."

The man hesitated.

"The entire service, sir?"

"The coffin. The flowers. The musicians. The private burial. Everything."

Another pause.

"May I ask the reason for cancellation?"

Daniel's eyes stayed on mine.

"Scheduling conflict."

I covered my mouth so I would not laugh. Even Dr. Hart smiled.

When the call ended, Daniel stared at his phone for a long time.

"I spent two hours choosing the coffin," he said.