Chapter 6 - THE TRAITOR
“No.”
I took the photograph from Luca.
“That isn’t possible.”
“It’s a security image,” he said.
“Elena wouldn’t—”
“You’ve known her three weeks.”
Massimo’s face was unreadable.
“I’ve known her twenty-five years.”
We found Elena in the kitchen.
She didn’t run.
She didn’t argue.
She looked at the photo and sat down.
“I can explain.”
Massimo’s voice was colder than I had ever heard it.
“Start.”
Elena folded her hands.
“The man in that photograph is my son.”
Silence.
Luca cursed softly.
“You have a son?” I asked.
Massimo stared at her.
“You told us he died.”
“I told your father he died.”
“Why?”
“Because your father would have killed him.”
Massimo’s jaw tightened.
Elena continued.
“My son got involved with people who wanted access to this house. He owed money. They threatened his wife. His children.”
“So you opened the gate,” Luca said.
“I was told they would steal documents.”
“Three men are dead.”
“I know.”
Her voice broke.
“I know.”
Massimo rolled closer.
“Did you know about the truck?”
Elena looked up sharply.
“No.”
“Did your son?”
“I don’t know.”
Massimo’s expression changed.
“Where is he?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t tell you.”
Luca stepped forward.
“You don’t have a choice.”
Massimo raised one hand.
Luca stopped.
Massimo looked at Elena.
“If you help us, your grandchildren live.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“If I tell you, my son dies.”
“If you don’t, more people die.”
She looked at me.
I hated that she did.
As if I had an answer.
“Tell him,” I said quietly.
Her face collapsed.
An hour later, Massimo’s men left to find Elena’s son.
Massimo stayed behind because of me.
He didn’t say that.
He didn’t need to.
We went to the therapy room.
“You’re not training tonight,” I said.
“Yes, I am.”
“You were shot at six hours ago.”
“So were you.”
“I’m not recovering from spinal surgery.”
He gripped the parallel bars.
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“I need to stand.”
“Why?”
He looked at the empty doorway.
“Because everybody keeps deciding what I can and can’t do.”
I understood.
I positioned myself beside him.
“Okay.”
He pushed.
His arms shook.
His feet planted.
His knees locked.
“Breathe.”
He rose.
Slowly.
One inch.
Then another.
His entire body trembled.
But he stood.
Not fully upright.
Not safely.
But he stood.
Massimo looked at me.
Shock replaced anger.
“I’m standing.”
“You are.”
He laughed.
A real laugh this time.
My eyes filled.
“Don’t you dare cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
He shifted one hand from the bar.
“Don’t.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not ready.”
“I’m standing.”
“Massimo—”
His knee buckled.
I caught him.
We crashed against the bars.
His face ended inches from mine.
Neither of us moved.
“You scare the hell out of me,” I whispered.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
“Good.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
Then he kissed me.
Hard.
Brief.
Desperate.
When he pulled away, both of us were breathing too fast.
“This is a terrible idea,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You’re my patient.”
“Yes.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“You’re unbelievably annoying.”
“Also yes.”
I should have stepped away.
Instead, I kissed him again.
Then the therapy-room door opened.
Camila stood there.
Her face was pale.
“Tessa.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
She held out her phone.
“Your mother called me.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
May you like
Camila swallowed.
“She’s missing.”
