Chapter 1 - THE BULLET
The first bullet shattered the window three inches from my face.
Glass exploded across the therapy room.
I hit the floor.
“DOWN!” Massimo Pascale roared.
A second shot punched through the wall.
Then a third.
For a man who couldn’t stand without help, Massimo moved fast.
He grabbed my wrist and yanked me behind his wheelchair.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Tessa. Look at me.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Blood ran down my cheek.
His eyes went black.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s glass.”
Another shot cracked outside.
Men shouted in Italian somewhere downstairs.
Massimo pulled a handgun from beneath the cushion of his wheelchair.
I stared at it.
“You keep a gun in your chair?”
“This is really what you want to discuss right now?”
Someone screamed.
Massimo checked the magazine.
His hands were steady.
Mine weren’t.
Ten days earlier, I hadn’t even known his name.
Ten days earlier, my biggest problem was tuition.
I had no idea I was about to become the reason someone wanted the most dangerous man in Boston dead.
Or that I would eventually have to decide whether to save him.
Ten days earlier…
I was sitting in my tiny apartment, staring at an email that had just destroyed my life.
FINAL TUITION NOTICE.
Fourteen days.
That was how long I had before Boston Metropolitan University suspended me from my doctoral program in neurological physical therapy.
Fourteen days to find money I didn’t have.
I had spent almost ten years getting there.
While friends bought houses, got married, traveled, and complained about boring office jobs, I worked hospital shifts and studied until two in the morning.
My apartment was six steps from kitchen to bed.
Half my furniture came from thrift stores.
I owned exactly one decent coat.
But I had a dream.
And dreams are expensive.
My phone rang.
Camila Reyes.
My best friend.
I answered.
“Please tell me you won the lottery.”
“Tessa.”
Her voice killed my attempt at humor.
“What happened?”
“I found you a job.”
“I have a job.”
“This one pays fifty thousand dollars.”
I sat up.
“For what?”
“Three months.”
“Camila, if this involves taking my clothes off, the answer is no.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then somebody is definitely getting murdered.”
She went silent.
My stomach tightened.
“Camila?”
“Meet me downtown.”
An hour later, she pushed a folder across a café table.
Inside was a medical history.
Male.
Thirty-eight.
Severe spinal injury after a vehicle crash.
Multiple surgeries.
Partial sensation below the waist.
Possible recovery.
Name: Massimo Pascale.
“Why fifty thousand?” I asked.
Camila stared into her coffee.
“Because three nurses already quit.”
“Why?”
“He has anger issues.”
“I’ve handled angry patients.”
“This one has armed guards.”
I stopped breathing.
“What exactly does Massimo Pascale do?”
“He used to run things.”
“What things?”
Camila looked me straight in the eye.
“Organized crime.”
I laughed.
She didn’t.
“You’re serious?”
“Very.”
“You want me to rehabilitate a mafia boss?”
“I want you to save your career.”
“That’s a terrible sales pitch.”
“It’s still true.”
I looked at the number again.
$50,000.
Enough to clear my tuition.
Enough to keep my dream alive.
“What are the rules?”
“You live at his estate during the week. Medical care only. Three months.”
“And after that?”
“You leave.”
I closed the folder.
“Why does that sound like a lie?”
Camila hesitated.
“Because people don’t usually leave Massimo Pascale unchanged.”
Two days later, a black sedan carried me through iron gates into another world.
Cameras.
Armed guards.
Stone walls.
A mansion built like a fortress.
Elena Moretti, the house manager, met me at the door.
“You’re the new therapist?”
“Yes.”
She gave me a long look.
“You’re young.”
“I get that a lot.”
“The last therapist lasted seven hours.”
“That long?”
Elena almost smiled.
Then she opened the door to a large room overlooking the garden.
A man sat near the windows.
Black shirt.
Dark hair.
Hard face.
Wheelchair.
He turned toward me.
Even sitting down, Massimo Pascale somehow filled the room.
His eyes moved over me slowly.
“You’re small.”
I put my bag down.
“And you’re rude.”
The guards froze.
Elena closed her eyes.
Massimo stared at me.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It was short.
Almost rusty.
Like he had forgotten how.
Everyone in the room looked stunned.
Massimo noticed.
His smile disappeared.
He leaned back.
“You’re the fourth one.”
“Fourth what?”
“Woman who thinks she can fix me.”
I stepped closer.
“I’m not here to fix you.”
His expression sharpened.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re injured.”
I looked directly at him.
“Not broken.”
Something flashed across his face.
Pain.
Then anger covered it.
“Seven tomorrow morning.”
“For therapy?”
“For your first chance to quit.”
He turned away.
As Elena walked me out, she whispered one sentence.
“Whatever happens, Miss Fitzgerald…”
May you like
I looked at her.
“Never ask who caused his accident.”
