Chapter 3 - The Ghost from the DocksThe fragile equilibrium within the Pascale estate shattered on a rainy Tuesday morning three weeks into Tessa’s contract.
The storm howling off the Atlantic battered the estate’s reinforced windows with sheets of heavy gray rain, mirroring the dark mood that had settled over Massimo since their midnight encounter in the solarium. He had been sullen, uncooperative, and relentlessly pushing himself to the point of physical exhaustion during their morning session, refusing to take breaks despite Tessa’s strict clinical warnings.
“That’s enough for today, Massimo. Your lumbar region is spasming,” Tessa instructed, standing over his chair with a clipboard in hand.
“I said one more set,” Massimo snapped, his hands gripping the rubber-coated rims of his wheels so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“And I said no,” Tessa countered, her voice dropping into its authoritative physical therapist tone. “You push past the threshold of fatigue, you risk tearing the stabilizing grafts from your last surgery. I’m not letting your stubborn ego reverse three weeks of progress.”
Before Massimo could retort, the heavy oak doors of the study burst open.
Marcus, the towering head of security who had greeted Tessa on her first day, strode into the room looking like a thundercloud. Water dripped from his black trench coat onto the polished hardwood floor, and his expression was grim.
“Boss,” Marcus said, ignoring Tessa entirely. “We have a situation at the South Boston docks. The Valenti crew is moving in on Pier 4. They’re testing the perimeter.”
Massimo’s head snapped up, his slate-gray eyes instantly hardening into chips of ice. The vulnerability of a few nights ago vanished, replaced by the terrifying, calculating persona of the mafia boss the underworld feared.
“Testing?” Massimo repeated, his voice dangerously low. “While I’m confined to this chair, they aren't testing. They’re sniffing for blood.”
“Shall I mobilize the enforcement detail?” Marcus asked, resting a hand near his firearm.
“No,” Massimo growled, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair with a deafening thud. “If I send men in shooting, it shows weakness. It tells the Commission that the Pascale family is vulnerable because the head is paralyzed. I need to go down there myself.”
Tessa stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Go down there?” Tessa stepped directly into his field of vision. “Are you insane? You can barely transfer from this chair to a car without assistance, and you want to walk—well, roll—into a cartel turf war?”
Massimo glared up at her, his jaw set like granite. “This is my business, Miss Fitzgerald. Stay out of it.”
“My patient is currently refusing medical common sense, which makes it my business!” Tessa shot back, her temper finally flaring past its breaking point. “You think you’re going to intimidate rival mobsters from a wheelchair while your lower body is dead weight? They’ll smell your blood in the water within five seconds!”
Marcus cast a nervous glance between Tessa and his boss, clearly waiting for Massimo to order the insolent therapist thrown out of the window.
Instead, Massimo stared at Tessa for a long, agonizing moment, his chest heaving with suppressed fury.
“Marcus,” Massimo commanded, never breaking eye contact with Tessa. “Get the armored SUV ready. And call the harbor commissioner. Tell him I’m paying an unexpected visit.”
“Boss—!” Tessa protested.
“You’re coming with me,” Massimo interrupted, his voice brooking zero argument.
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Tessa froze. “I am what?”
“If I’m going to enter a war zone looking like an invalid, I need my physical therapist on standby to make sure I don't collapse in front of the Valenti captains,” Massimo said with a cold, sadistic smirk. “Grab your medical bag, Miss Fitzgerald. You’re about to see what fifty thousand dollars really buys.”
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