Chapter 6 - The Spider and the Fly
The gun barrel looked impossibly wide in the dim light of the study. My mind raced, trying to bridge the gap between the girl I had shared coffee with just a week ago and the cold, calculating operative standing before me with a weapon.
“Camila... what is this?” I breathed, my voice shaking despite every effort to stay grounded.
“Business, Tessa,” Camila replied, her expression devoid of any warmth or remorse. She stepped further into the room, closing the door softly behind her. “You really thought a multi-million-dollar criminal enterprise operates on casual referrals? I placed you here. You were small, you were desperate with your tuition, and your clinical skills were just good enough to keep Massimo alive long enough for our buyers to finalize the takeover.”
“Buyers?” I echoed, backing up slowly until my spine hit the edge of the mahogany desk.
“The Chicago syndicate,” Camila said, a smug smile playing on her lips. “Massimo was getting soft. He wanted to legitimize the family, move into real estate, cut ties with the old blood. That doesn't work for people like us. We needed him permanently sidelined—paralyzed, compliant, or dead. And you, sweet, brilliant Tessa, were the perfect scapegoat. When the autopsy or the final medical report comes out, the incompetent physical therapist who overdosed him will take the fall.”
Every piece of the puzzle snapped into horrifying focus. The rushed timeline, the sudden financial panic engineered by her mysterious contacts, the double-crossing right under our noses. I was never hired to heal Massimo; I was hired to be the executioner’s proxy.
“He trusts you,” I whispered, thinking of the dark, scarred man waiting in the west wing.
“He used to,” Camila corrected sharply, raising the pistol higher, her finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “And now, unfortunately, you know too much to leave this room alive. Don't worry, I’ll make sure your tuition is paid in full. From your life insurance policy.”
She pulled the hammer back with a soft, ominous click.
I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, bracing for the impact, searching every desperate corner of my mind for a way out. My fingers brushed against the heavy brass paperweight resting on the edge of the desk.
Before Camila could squeeze the trigger, the heavy double doors of the study didn't just open—they exploded inward, splintering off their hinges with a deafening crash.
A dark, imposing figure rolled through the shattered frame, a heavy-caliber Glock raised in a rock-steady grip.
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Massimo Pascale wasn't in his wheelchair.
Supported by two heavy metal forearm crutches, his teeth bared in a snarl of pure, unadulterated fury, the mafia boss stood tall on his own two feet.
