By the fourth week, Massimo had stopped trying to fire me.
He had moved on to complaining about everything I did instead.
“The resistance band is too tight.”
“It isn't.”
“The table is too low.”
“It isn't.”
“This exercise is pointless.”
“It isn't.”
“You've become irritatingly predictable.”
“So have you.”
He glared.
I smiled.
The routine worked.
He was stronger.
His trunk control had improved enough that he could sit unsupported for almost twenty minutes.
He could transfer from bed to wheelchair with supervision instead of full assistance.
Most importantly, his quadriceps had begun responding.
Weakly.
Inconsistently.
But responding.
One Tuesday morning, I attached the gait belt around his waist and positioned him between the parallel bars installed in the private rehabilitation room.
Massimo stared at the floor.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We're not ready.”
I nearly smiled.
It was the first time he had said we.
“Your doctors cleared supported standing.”
“My doctors aren't here.”
“I am.”
He looked at me.
“That isn't reassuring.”
“Hands on the bars.”
Massimo obeyed reluctantly.
Luca stood near the doorway.
Two other men had conveniently found reasons to be nearby.
Word had spread.
Massimo Pascale was going to attempt standing.
He noticed the audience.
“Get them out.”
“They're security.”
“They're spectators.”
I looked toward Luca.
“Out.”
Luca blinked.
Massimo almost smiled.
Within seconds, everyone disappeared.
I stood directly in front of him.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
He muttered something in Italian.
“I'm assuming that was affectionate.”
“It wasn't.”
“On three.”
Massimo shifted forward.
I stabilized his knees.
“One.”
His breathing changed.
“Two.”
His hands tightened around the bars.
“Three.”
He pushed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then his hips lifted.
His arms trembled violently.
His legs shook.
But Massimo rose.
Not fully.
Not gracefully.
Yet he rose.
Six inches.
Then ten.
Then almost upright.
His eyes widened.
“Don't look down,” I said.
He looked directly at me.
I could feel the tremor passing through his body.
“I'm standing.”
“You're standing.”
His expression broke.
Just for a second.
The ruthless man everyone feared disappeared.
In his place was someone who had been told his life might be over.
Someone discovering that maybe it wasn't.
Then his left knee buckled.
I caught him.
Massimo's arms came around my shoulders instinctively.
For one breath, we were pressed together.
Too close.
His face inches from mine.
I could feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
Strong.
His eyes dropped toward my mouth.
Mine probably did the same.
Then I stepped back.
“Sit.”
His voice was rough.
“Probably wise.”
We never discussed that moment.
But everything changed after it.
Massimo worked harder.
He stopped skipping exercises.
Started asking questions.
Started timing his own contractions.
He even allowed me to bring in equipment he had previously called “medieval torture devices.”
Then came the bathing incident.
Normally, an aide handled personal care when I wasn't required for medical reasons.
But one Friday morning, Massimo refused assistance from anyone else.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because Marco dropped me last week.”
“He didn't drop you.”
“My foot slipped.”
“Exactly.”
“I'm not arguing semantics while naked.”
I crossed my arms.
“That sentence alone should convince you to cooperate.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself helping one of Boston's most feared men transfer into a shower chair.
Professional.
Clinical.
Completely normal.
That was what I told myself.
Unfortunately, Massimo's body had apparently missed the memo.
Despite months of injury, his upper body remained powerful.
Broad shoulders.
Defined chest.
Tattooed arms.
Scars along his ribs from surgeries.
A long surgical scar disappeared beneath the towel around his waist.
I focused aggressively on the shower controls.
“You're staring,” he said.
“I am absolutely not.”
“You turned the water cold.”
I looked.
He was right.
“Medical technique.”
“For what condition?”
“Ego.”
He laughed.
An actual laugh.
Deep and unexpected.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
Steam curled around us.
I held the handheld shower sprayer.
Massimo's expression changed.
Not flirtatious.
Not dangerous.
Vulnerable.
“I hate this,” he said quietly.
I understood immediately.
Not the shower.
The dependence.
I lowered my voice.
“I know.”
“I used to have people afraid to look me in the eye.”
“Congratulations.”
His mouth twitched.
“Now I need help washing my own back.”
“You're recovering from spinal trauma. That's not weakness.”
“It feels like it.”
I moved behind him and carefully rinsed the soap from his shoulders.
His tattoos disappeared beneath the water and returned darker.
“Then maybe feeling weak and being weak aren't the same thing.”
He turned his head.
“You always have an answer?”
“No.”
“What don't you have an answer for?”
I should have said something easy.
Instead, I said, “Why someone tried to kill you.”
The room went silent.
Massimo's shoulders stiffened.
I immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn't speak for several seconds.
Then he said, “It wasn't an accident.”
I waited.
He continued.
“My brakes failed on a mountain road.”
My hand stopped.
“Someone tampered with them?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“If I knew that, they wouldn't still be breathing.”
His tone was matter-of-fact.
A reminder.
Massimo wasn't merely a difficult patient.
He was dangerous.
I finished rinsing his shoulders.
“That's why everyone is watching you.”
“That's why everyone is watching everyone.”
Including me.
The thought unsettled me.
That evening, Camila called.
“How are things?”
“He stood today.”
Silence.
Then, “Massimo stood?”
“For about eight seconds.”
“Tessa, that's incredible.”
“He did the work.”
She hesitated.
“Has he told you anything about the accident?”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I need you to remember your agreement.”
“Medical care only.”
“Yes.”
“Camila, am I in danger?”
Another hesitation.
Too long.
“Tessa.”
“That's not an answer.”
“The estate is secure.”
“That is definitely not an answer.”
She exhaled.
“Just don't leave the property with anyone except the driver Luca assigns.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“Because Massimo's condition isn't the only thing changing.”
Before I could demand an explanation, the line went dead.
I slept badly.
The next morning, Massimo noticed.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
We worked for an hour.
Then I finally asked, “Is someone watching me?”
He stopped exercising.
“Who told you?”
“Camila told me not to leave with anyone except Luca's drivers.”
Massimo's expression hardened.
He reached for his phone.
“Luca.”
Thirty seconds later, Luca entered.
Massimo spoke quietly.
“What happened?”
Luca looked at me.
That was enough.
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
Luca answered carefully.
“A car followed Ms. Fitzgerald home two nights ago.”
I stood frozen.
“What?”
“We handled it.”
“You handled it?”
Massimo's voice turned cold.
“Who was driving?”
“We don't know yet.”
Massimo slammed his palm against the wheelchair armrest.
“Find out.”
Luca nodded and left.
I stared at Massimo.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“Would you have told me?”
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Right.”
“Tessa.”
“I have classes. I have a job. I have a normal life outside this place.”
“Not anymore.”
The words hit me like a slap.
Massimo immediately realized it.
“That came out wrong.”
“No. It came out honestly.”
I grabbed my bag.
He rolled forward.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You can't leave alone.”
“I've been leaving alone for a month.”
“You won't now.”
“You don't get to control me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“From a danger I only have because I work for you.”
Silence.
That was the truth neither of us wanted to say.
Massimo looked away.
For the first time, he seemed ashamed.
“I'll terminate the contract,” he said.
I blinked.
“You'll still receive the money.”
“What?”
“All fifty thousand. You can walk away today.”
I stared at him.
This was what I had wanted.
Tuition saved.
No more dangerous estate.
No more bodyguards.
No more secrets.
No more Massimo.
I should have accepted immediately.
Instead, I looked at the parallel bars.
At the gait belt.
At the man who had stood for eight seconds because I refused to let him quit.
“You'd stop therapy.”
“I'd hire someone.”
“The last three quit.”
“Then I'd hire a fourth.”
“And terrorize them until they quit too.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Tessa.”
I put down my bag.
“You owe me eleven seconds tomorrow.”
Massimo stared at me.
“You're staying?”
“For now.”
His eyes held mine.
Something deeper than gratitude appeared there.
Something that frightened me more.
“Why?”
I swallowed.
“Because I'm not finished.”
The following morning, Massimo stood for fourteen seconds.
Three days later, twenty-seven.
A week later, he lifted his right foot.
And one cold November afternoon, with my hands hovering near his waist and Luca watching silently from the doorway, Massimo Pascale took his first supported step.
Then another.
He looked at me.
His face was filled with disbelief.
I whispered, “Again.”
He stepped.
And somewhere beyond the windows, a camera shutter clicked.
None of us heard it.
But someone outside the Pascale estate had just taken a photograph of Massimo standing.
And by nightfall, the people who had tried to cripple him would know they had failed.