Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Gamble
Viktor’s grip on my shoulder felt like a vise, heavy enough to bruise. Every instinct I possessed screamed that I was standing on the precipice of an unmarked grave.
“I was looking for water,” I managed to say, forcing a steady, clinical calmness into my voice that I was far from feeling. “My room has a dry carafe. Surely hydration isn’t a violation of the Pascale security protocol?”
Viktor stared down at me for three agonizingly long seconds, searching my face for any trace of panic, any micro-expression that would betray what I had just overheard behind those heavy doors. I kept my breathing slow, mimicking the rhythm I used when calming patients in acute trauma units.
Slowly, his fingers relaxed. He stepped back, gesturing toward the main corridor with a sweep of his scarred hand.
“The kitchen is downstairs, past the solarium. Not up here, Doctor. Don’t get lost again.”
“I won’t,” I whispered, turning on my heel and walking away with deliberate, unhurried steps. Only when I rounded the corner and locked myself inside my room did my legs finally give out, sliding down the wooden door until I hit the cold floor.
They want him paralyzed. They want him dead. And they’re watching every move I make.
The fifty thousand dollars suddenly felt like blood money. If I walked away now, breaking my contract, Camila would lose her job as a referral source, my tuition deadline would pass, and I would be ruined anyway. But if I stayed, I was walking blindly through a minefield where the triggers were pulled by the people sworn to protect my patient.
The next morning, the sun rose over the Boston harbor, casting a pale, deceptive light over the fortress. I walked down to the ground-floor gym with a hardened resolve. I wasn't just a physical therapist anymore. I was a detective trying to solve a murder before the victim even realized he was dying.
Massimo was already waiting in his chair, dressed in gray athletic gear, his jaw set in a grim line. His dark eyes flicked to my face as I entered, instantly narrowing.
“You look like you haven't slept,” he noted bluntly. “Did my guards keep you up?”
“No,” I said, setting my diagnostic tablet on the rolling tray. “Your coffee did. Or rather, the lack of it.”
A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth, but it vanished as I stepped behind his chair, sliding my hands down to check the tension in his lumbar support. As I adjusted the straps, I leaned in close enough that only he could hear.
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“Your security team downstairs talks too much in their sleep, Mr. Pascale,” I whispered against his ear. “Or maybe... someone in this house wants you to stay in that chair forever.”
Massimo went completely rigid. The ambient noise of the gym seemed to evaporate, replaced by an explosive, suffocating tension. Slowly, agonizingly, the most feared man in Boston turned his head to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying fire.
