Chapter 10
The heavy oak doors of the rehabilitation room creaked open, and Luke stepped inside, holding a stack of shipping manifests under one arm. He stopped short in his tracks, watching me steady myself between the parallel bars, my knuckles white as I forced my legs to hold my weight for a full sixty seconds before letting out a controlled exhale and sinking back down into the leather seat of my wheelchair.
A slow, approving grin spread across Luke’s face. “Damn, Danny. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I’d say you were working miracles.”
“Miracles have nothing to do with it, Luke,” I replied, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a towel Emma handed me. “It’s sheer stubbornness and a very demanding trainer.”
Emma offered a mock-serious salute, adjusting the collar of her sharp, charcoal-gray blazer—a far cry from the canvas cleaning bag she had carried into the estate two years ago. “Somebody has to keep the head of the Chicago syndicate from slacking off on his physical therapy.”
May you like
Luke tossed the manifests onto the side table. “Well, while you’re busy learning how to walk again, the city council is waiting on your signature for the downtown logistics overhaul. The port authority approved the acquisition of the southern piers this morning. We officially control every shipping lane from Indiana to Wisconsin.”
“Good,” I said, wheeling myself toward the mahogany desk. “Let’s finalize the paperwork before noon. I want the charitable trusts for the memory-care facilities funded by the end of the week.”
