Chapter 8 - A New Dawn in Chicago
Three months later, the headlines in the Chicago Tribune read: LOMBARDI EMPIRE RESTRUCTURED; FORMER CRIME LORD PLEDGES HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS TO MEDICAL RESEARCH.
The old syndicate was dead.
Arthur Sterling and the remaining conspirators were facing life in federal prison with no possibility of parole. Dr. Marcus Vance was behind bars awaiting trial for corporate conspiracy and medical malpractice.
And in a sunlit, state-of-the-art rehabilitation clinic overlooking downtown Chicago, an eight-year-old boy named Oliver was laughing as he kicked a soccer ball across a polished wooden floor, his breathing clear, deep, and steady.
Standing by the doorway, watching him play, was a man in a tailored dark suit.
He didn't need a titanium chair anymore.
Sebastian Lombardi walked over to where I was standing, holding a clipboard of Oliver’s progress notes, and handed me a cup of hot coffee.
“How’s our star patient?” Sebastian asked, looking out at Oliver scoring a goal against a physical therapist who was playing goalie.
“He’s doing incredible,” I said, taking the cup and looking up at Sebastian. “Thanks to the new ventilation system at our new apartment... and a certain anonymous donor who keeps paying our medical bills three years in advance.”
Sebastian smiled, leaning against the doorframe, his posture completely straight, his eyes warm and steady.
“Just a satisfied client investing in his favorite physical therapist,” Sebastian said smoothly.
I looked down at the courtyard below, then back at the man who had once terrified half of Chicago with a single glance.
“You know, Sebastian,” I murmured, taking a sip of the coffee, “for a mob boss, you’re not half bad at following instructions.”
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Sebastian laughed—a deep, resonant sound that echoed down the hallway—and turned to walk beside me into the sunlight.
“Rule number one of physical therapy, Claire,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets as we walked out together. “Never argue with the woman who knows how to make you stand.”
