Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of Power
The copper plaque outside the Fitzgerald-Pascale Neurological Institute gleamed under the winter sun, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Three weeks after the trial that sent Viktor and Camila to a federal supermax, the ghosts of the old Boston syndicate still haunted the shadows. Massimo had reclaimed his seat at the head of the family, but a throne built on blood and betrayal required constant maintenance. I stood in my new, state-of-the-art office, reviewing patient charts when the heavy mahogany door swung open without a knock.
Massimo walked in, his gait entirely steady, though a faint line of exhaustion marked the corners of his dark eyes. He looked every bit the mafia kingpin in a tailored charcoal overcoat, yet the rigid posture of a man who had fought his way out of paralysis remained.
“You’re supposed to be resting your lumbar alignment, not pacing the harbor district,” I scolded, setting my tablet down and crossing my arms.
“Rest is for men who aren’t hunting ghosts, Tessa,” Massimo replied, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always sent a shiver down my spine. He closed the door behind him, locking the heavy brass latch. “The Chicago syndicate just sent an emissary to the docks. They want to know if the rumors are true—if the Pascale family is truly rebuilding under a doctor’s watch.”
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“And what did you tell them?” I asked, stepping closer.
A dangerous, predatory smile touched his lips. “I told them to come and find out.”
