Chapter 3 - Someone Wanted Him in That Chair
“Lorenzo is the brother who hired me?”
Massimo didn't answer.
We were alone in his study.
He had read the hospital page three times.
“Massimo.”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then why was his name removed from your medical records?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he cause the accident?”
Massimo looked at me.
“Your job is my recovery. Nothing else.”
I folded my arms.
“Normally, I'd agree.”
“Then agree.”
“Someone replaced your medication with a drug that could suppress your rehabilitation progress.”
Silence.
“That makes this medically relevant.”
His eyes hardened.
“You really don't know when to stop.”
“It's one of my worst qualities.”
“One?”
“I'm told there are several.”
For half a second, something almost human appeared in his face.
Then it disappeared.
Massimo wheeled toward the window.
“Lorenzo is my younger brother.”
“How much younger?”
“Five years.”
“Was he with you when you crashed?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say his name?”
“I don't remember.”
That answer felt genuine.
Massimo remembered leaving a restaurant that night.
He remembered rain.
A dark road.
Then nothing until the hospital.
“Did Lorenzo benefit from your injury?”
Massimo turned.
“Everyone benefits when a powerful man becomes weak.”
It was the darkest thing I'd heard him say.
Over the next several days, the estate changed.
Security doubled.
Medication was locked.
Victor began personally supervising deliveries.
Lorenzo did not appear.
That bothered me.
A brother learns someone may have tampered with your medication, and he doesn't visit?
Massimo refused to discuss it.
So I returned to what I could control.
His body.
Rehabilitation became more aggressive.
Supported weight-bearing.
Neuromuscular stimulation.
Transfer repetitions.
Trunk control.
Standing-frame tolerance.
Massimo hated the standing frame.
“Again,” I said.
“You enjoy this.”
“Immensely.”
“You're a sadist.”
“You're dramatic.”
Sweat ran down his temple.
“Five more minutes.”
“Two.”
“Five.”
“Three.”
“Six.”
He stared at me.
“That isn't how negotiation works.”
“It is with me.”
He lasted seven.
Then came the first setback.
His right leg spasmed during a transfer.
He lost balance.
I caught his upper body before he hit the floor, but his knee struck the edge of the treatment table.
Massimo shoved my hands away.
“Don't.”
“You almost fell.”
“I know.”
“Let me check your knee.”
“No.”
“Massimo.”
“I said no!”
His voice exploded through the room.
I stepped back.
He froze.
The silence afterward was worse.
I removed my gloves.
“We're done today.”
His breathing was heavy.
“Tessa.”
“No.”
I walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere I'm not being screamed at.”
His expression shifted.
People didn't walk away from Massimo Pascale.
Apparently he needed practice.
“Tessa.”
I stopped.
He looked down at his useless legs.
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.
“I apologize.”
I turned.
It wasn't easy for him.
I could see that.
“Accepted.”
I returned.
He let me examine his knee.
Nothing serious.
That evening, I found him alone on the terrace.
Boston's first snowflakes were falling.
“You'll freeze.”
“I've survived worse.”
“I've noticed.”
I put a blanket over his legs.
He didn't object.
After a while, Massimo said, “I was supposed to meet Lorenzo the night of the crash.”
I looked at him.
“He called twenty minutes before and canceled.”
“Why?”
“Said he was sick.”
“Was he?”
“I never asked.”
I sat beside him.
“Why were you meeting?”
Massimo watched snow settle across the dark lawn.
“I was leaving.”
“The family?”
“The business.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
His answer came slowly.
“Because eventually you realize power doesn't protect you from consequences. It just delays them.”
He told me he'd spent years moving Pascale businesses toward legitimate operations.
Lorenzo opposed it.
Not openly.
Never openly.
But Massimo knew.
“If you left,” I said, “who controlled everything?”
“Lorenzo.”
There it was.
Motive.
But motives weren't evidence.
Camila understood that.
I called her the next morning.
She arrived with records.
Corporate filings.
Insurance documents.
Trust amendments.
Lorenzo had been appointed temporary managing authority over multiple Pascale companies after Massimo's accident.
Temporary became indefinite if Massimo were declared permanently incapacitated.
“That's not proof,” Camila warned.
“No,” I said.
“But somebody's been sabotaging his rehabilitation.”
Massimo looked at her.
“Who knew about the incapacity clause?”
Camila hesitated.
“You. Lorenzo. Victor. Your corporate counsel.”
“Who drafted it?”
“Your father.”
Massimo's expression darkened.
His father had been dead six years.
The conspiracy suddenly reached further backward than any of us expected.
Then Victor entered.
“There is something you need to see.”
Security footage.
The camera outside the medication room had recorded someone entering at 2:13 a.m. the night before the pills were switched.
The figure wore a hood.
Face hidden.
But when Victor slowed the footage, Massimo leaned forward.
The person used a key.
Only four people had one.
Victor.
Dana.
Massimo.
And Lorenzo.
Massimo stared at the screen.
Then the figure turned.
For perhaps half a second, the sleeve pulled back.
A watch appeared.
Silver case.
Black dial.
Red second hand.
Massimo whispered, “Pause.”
Victor froze the image.
Massimo's face changed.
“I gave that watch to Lorenzo on his thirtieth birthday.”
Nobody spoke.
Then the lights went out.
The entire estate fell dark.
Somewhere downstairs, glass shattered.
Victor reached beneath his jacket.
“Tessa, stay here.”
A second crash.
Then smoke began curling beneath the study door.
This wasn't an electrical failure.
Someone had started a fire.
May you like
And Massimo Pascale was three floors above the ground in a wheelchair.
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