Come on, darling. We need a normal child,"" the woman said

The walk back to the administration building felt like a procession through a royal court, except every courtier was trembling.

Dominic didn't push my wheelchair himself; he walked beside it at an easy, deliberate pace, matching the roll of my wheels. Two of his men, towering figures in charcoal wool suits, walked flanking us at a respectful distance. Every pair of eyes on the St. Jude lawn was fixed on us.

The woman in the linen suit—whose nametag read Mrs. Eleanor Sterling—and her husband, Richard, stood near the refreshments table. As Dominic passed them, his cold eyes flicked toward Eleanor. He didn't say a word, but the sheer weight of his attention caused Richard Sterling to spill coffee down the front of his designer shirt. Eleanor shrank back, her knuckles turning bone-white around her leather clutch.

"Vance," Dominic commanded without looking back. "My office. Now."

"Yes, Mr. Moretti. Right away," Director Vance replied, practically jogging to keep up as he unlocked the heavy oak doors of the administrative wing.

The director’s office was lined with mahogany bookshelves and framed photographs of wealthy benefactors, but the air felt instantly claustrophobic the moment Dominic stepped inside. Dominic didn't take the visitor's chair. Instead, he pulled a wooden armchair across the rug and positioned it directly next to my wheelchair, gesturing for me to park beside him.

"Sit, Vance," Dominic said.

The director sat behind his own desk, his hands trembling as he rested them on a green blotter. "Mr. Moretti, if this is about the medical wing funding, I assure you every penny has been accounted for—"

"I don't care about the receipts right now," Dominic interrupted, his voice calm, low, and lethal. "I want the file on Lily Harper."

Vance blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. "Lily? But... Mr. Moretti, adoption protocols are strictly regulated by the State Department of Children and Family Services. As a single man, and given... well, given your public profile, the vetting process is—"

"I didn't ask for a lecture on family law," Dominic said softly. He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a slim, black leather notebook, dropping it onto the polished wood. "I asked for her file. Now."

Within two minutes, a thick beige folder rested before Dominic. He opened it, his dark eyes scanning the documents with clinical efficiency.

"Abandoned at Brooklyn General Hospital at four months old," Dominic read aloud, his jaw muscles clenching. "No living relatives identified. Diagnosed with transverse myelitis at age three, resulting in lower limb paraplegia. Fully rehabilitated upper body motor skills. High cognitive functioning. Above-average spatial intelligence." He closed the folder with a sharp snap.

"She is a wonderful child," Miss Clara’s voice suddenly piped up from the doorway. She had followed us inside, clutching a manila envelope. Her hands were shaking, but she stood tall. "She needs someone who actually sees her, Mr. Moretti. Not people who treat her like damaged inventory."

Dominic turned his sharp gaze toward the young volunteer. For a moment, the room held its breath. Then, Dominic gave a single, firm nod of respect.

"What is your name?"

"Clara Bennett, sir."

"Miss Bennett, gather Lily's things. Every sketch, every book, and every piece of clothing she cares about."

"Hold on, Dominic!"

The door swung wider, and a man in a rumpled navy suit entered, breathing heavily. He was in his mid-fifties, with tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a briefcase that looked like it had survived twenty years of courtroom combat. This was Paul Donahue, Dominic’s personal legal counsel—a man whose entire career was dedicated to keeping the Moretti empire within the technical boundaries of the penal code.

"Dominic, your security called me from the gate," Donahue said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "You cannot simply take a ward of the state. If you do this without legal custody, it’s custodial interference or outright kidnapping. The District Attorney is already looking for an excuse to put your name in front of a grand jury. You do this by the book, or you don't do it at all."

Dominic looked at Donahue, then looked down at me. I was sitting frozen, holding Mr. Bear against my chest, waiting for the grown-ups to decide my fate like they always did.

"Then open the book, Paul," Dominic said flatly. "Use the foundation. Temporary emergency foster placement under the Elena Moretti Children’s Trust. The state allows accredited philanthropic trusts to provide immediate medical shelter if the home facility lacks adequate specialized infrastructure."

Donahue blinked. "That... is technically an obscure provision in the administrative code, yes. But it requires the facility director's sworn certification that the child’s medical needs exceed the home's capability, followed by expedited judicial sign-off within forty-eight hours."

Dominic turned his eyes back onto Director Vance. "Vance. Does St. Jude's have a pediatric neuro-rehabilitation specialist on staff twenty-four hours a day?"

Vance swallowed hard. "N-no. We share a visiting physician with two other county facilities."

"Then her needs exceed your capabilities," Dominic stated. It wasn't a question. "Sign the temporary transfer to the Moretti Trust. Clara Bennett will be retained on my payroll as Lily’s private liaison and developmental tutor during the transition. She knows the girl. The girl trusts her."

Clara gasped softly, a hand flying to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. "I... I would be honored, Mr. Moretti."

Director Vance didn't hesitate any longer. He picked up his pen and signed the emergency placement documents Donahue quickly drafted on his tablet and printed using the office machine.

Ten minutes later, I was rolled back out into the bright afternoon sun. The crowd of prospective parents was still gathered, whispering, watching the spectacle.

As we neared the SUVs, Eleanor Sterling stepped forward, driven by an arrogant indignation that outweighed her common sense. Her husband tried to hold her back, but she shook him off.

"Director Vance!" Eleanor called out, her voice sharp with privilege. "What is the meaning of this? That man is a known criminal! My husband and I are upstanding members of the Westchester Country Club. We were considering that girl for our charity profile, and you're handing her over to a thug?"

Dominic stopped. The six bodyguards fanned out instantly, forming a wall of dark wool.

Dominic didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply walked two steps toward Eleanor Sterling until his towering frame completely eclipsed the sun above her.

"Ten minutes ago," Dominic whispered, his voice cutting through the silent lawn like a razor, "you told your husband you needed a 'normal' child. You looked at a six-year-old orphan and treated her like trash on the street."

Eleanor turned bright red, then pale grey. "I... that was a private conversation—"

"There is nothing private about your cruelty, Mrs. Sterling," Dominic continued. "You judged her worth by the strength of her legs. Let me tell you something about this world: legs carry you, but character defines you. You have neither."

Richard Sterling stepped forward, trembling. "Listen here, Moretti, I am a senior vice president at Sterling Capital. You can't threaten us—"

"I don't threaten people like you, Richard," Dominic said, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "I audit them. Now get off these grounds before I decide to take an interest in how your firm structures its off-shore bond funds."

Richard grabbed his wife’s wrist, pulling her away so fast she nearly tripped over her own heels. They scrambled into their luxury sedan without looking back.

Dominic turned to me, his demeanor shifting instantly from a ruthless predator to a gentle guardian. He bent down, picked me up out of my wheelchair with effortless strength, and settled me safely into the plush leather seat of the armored SUV. Clara folded my wheelchair and placed it in the rear cargo space with Mr. Bear tucked beside me.

As the heavy door closed with a solid, vault-like thud, Dominic sat across from me.

"Are you afraid, Lily?" he asked softly.

I looked at his scarred face, then out the tinted window at the gates of St. Jude’s fading in the distance. For the first time in three years, nobody was looking at me with pity.