Chapter 2 - Twenty-Five Dollars an Hour
Dominic walked into my bedroom carrying a leather folder and a smile I suddenly wanted to tear apart piece by piece.
Six months earlier, I would have trusted that smile.
We had known each other since we were sixteen.
Our fathers had done business together. We had fought in parking lots together, gotten thrown out of clubs together, built our first logistics company out of a rented warehouse together.
When my father died, Dominic stood beside me at the funeral.
When I became chairman of Corvino Holdings, I made him chief operating officer.
When I got engaged, I asked him to be my best man.
When I was shot, he spent the first three nights sleeping in a hospital waiting room.
At least, that was what Arya had told me.
Now I wondered how much of my life had been staged for my benefit.
“You look better,” Dominic said.
“Do I?”
“More color.”
“Probably rage.”
He laughed.
Same laugh.
Same Dominic.
Only now I could hear something underneath it.
He placed the leather folder on my lap.
“Pier Seven redevelopment.”
I didn't touch it.
“You couldn't bring this yesterday?”
“The investors are impatient.”
“They've been impatient for three years.”
“Different situation now.”
“What changed?”
His eyes dropped briefly toward the blanket covering my legs.
There it was.
A fraction of a second.
Pity.
Or satisfaction.
“Market conditions,” he said.
“Of course.”
He opened the folder.
A contract lay inside.
I recognized the property immediately.
Twenty-two acres along the eastern harbor.
Warehouses, loading space, rail access, deepwater frontage.
It was one of the most valuable pieces of undeveloped industrial property in the city.
My father bought it when everyone thought he was crazy.
Now half the developers on the East Coast wanted it.
“Who's the buyer?”
“Northstar Redevelopment.”
“I've never heard of them.”
“They're backed by private capital.”
“Whose?”
Dominic shifted.
“Several groups.”
“Names.”
“Vincent, we're talking about a preliminary transfer.”
“There is no such thing as a preliminary transfer of twenty-two acres.”
He smiled again.
“You haven't lost your touch.”
I closed the folder.
“Leave it.”
“We need the signature today.”
“No.”
His smile disappeared.
“What?”
“I said leave it.”
“The deadline is five.”
“Then they can wait.”
“They might walk.”
“Let them.”
Dominic moved closer.
“You've been away from the business six months.”
“I've been upstairs, Dominic. Not in a coma.”
“Things changed.”
“Apparently.”
He studied me.
For the first time, I saw uncertainty.
Good.
I wanted him uncertain.
I wanted every person involved in whatever this was to wonder how much I knew.
Then I softened my expression deliberately.
“I'm tired.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“I know.”
“I don't have the energy to read thirty pages of legal language.”
“I can summarize.”
“Tomorrow.”
“The investors—”
“Tomorrow.”
The old authority in my voice surfaced naturally.
Dominic stared at me for another second.
Then nodded.
“Sure.”
He picked up the folder.
At the door, he paused.
“Arya said you've been having a rough week.”
Interesting.
“Did she?”
“She worries.”
I almost laughed.
“That's comforting.”
“You know she loves you.”
“Do I?”
His hand remained on the doorknob.
“You should.”
Then he left.
I waited until his footsteps disappeared.
Five minutes later, Tessa returned.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.”
She closed the door.
“Did he ask about the document?”
“No.”
“That's good.”
“It means he doesn't know you found it.”
She looked relieved.
I wasn't.
Dominic was careful.
Careful men were dangerous because they rarely moved without preparing three exits.
“Did you put it back?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly?”
“Exactly.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
She crossed her arms.
“I grew up with a mother who could hear a refrigerator open from two floors away. I know how to move quietly.”
That nearly pulled another smile from me.
I pointed toward the chair.
“Sit.”
She did.
“Tell me everything about the household since I came home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything you've noticed.”
“I'm a caregiver.”
“You're also apparently the only person in this house willing to tell me the truth.”
She frowned.
“That doesn't mean I spy on people.”
“I'm not asking you to.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“Tessa.”
Her posture stiffened.
I immediately changed my tone.
“I'm asking what you've already seen.”
She considered that.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
“What changed?”
“Your therapy schedule has been reduced twice before.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“About six weeks ago, then again three weeks ago.”
“Who authorized it?”
“Arya.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“She said you were exhausted.”
“I wasn't.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
“Your visitors.”
“What about them?”
“They've decreased.”
“I assumed people got tired of seeing me.”
“No.”
The certainty in her voice caught my attention.
“You think someone is turning people away?”
“I know they are.”
“How?”
“Your uncle came two weeks ago.”
“Uncle Sal?”
“Yes.”
“He never came upstairs.”
“He wasn't allowed.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Who stopped him?”
“Security said you were asleep.”
“I wasn't.”
“I know. I was with you.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
Salvatore Corvino was my father's younger brother.
Retired.
Annoying.
Loyal enough to walk through fire barefoot if family was on the other side.
He had called me twice after the shooting, then suddenly stopped visiting.
I had assumed he couldn't handle seeing me injured.
Now I felt ashamed for believing it.
“Anyone else?”
“Mr. Hargrove.”
My attorney.
“When?”
“Last month.”
“He told me his schedule was full.”
“He stood downstairs for almost twenty minutes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who sent him away?”
“Arya spoke to him privately.”
“What did she say?”
“I couldn't hear.”
“Then?”
“He left angry.”
A pattern was emerging.
Isolation.
Canceled therapy.
Restricted visitors.
Business documents arriving through Dominic.
Everything filtered through Arya.
Everything designed to make my world smaller.
“How long have you known?”
Tessa's expression hardened.
“Known what?”
“That something was wrong.”
“I didn't know.”
“But you suspected.”
She looked down at her hands.
“Maybe.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because people like me don't accuse people like Arya Bennett of conspiracy without proof.”
“People like you?”
“Employees.”
“Tessa—”
“You can be offended later.”
I stopped.
She was right.
“If I had walked in here a month ago and said your beautiful fiancée was controlling your visitors and interfering with your treatment, what would you have done?”
I thought about it.
The answer embarrassed me.
“I would've defended her.”
“Exactly.”
“You still could've tried.”
“I needed this job.”
There was no apology in her voice.
Again, brutal honesty.
“My sister, Mia, has kidney disease. She's twenty-two. Insurance covers most things until it doesn't. One emergency hospital stay can wipe out three months of what I earn.”
She leaned back.
“I couldn't risk getting fired because I had a bad feeling about your fiancée.”
“Fair.”
“But yesterday I saw that document.”
“And?”
“And a bad feeling became something else.”
I watched her.
“You understand this could be dangerous.”
Her face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Yes.”
“You can walk away.”
“So can you.”
I looked down at my legs.
She immediately winced.
“That came out wrong.”
“No.”
I laughed quietly.
“That one was actually funny.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
For a moment, the room felt lighter.
Then I remembered the document.
“Do you know where Arya keeps her files?”
“Downstairs office.”
“Locked?”
“Usually.”
“How did you get in?”
“She left it open after talking to the house manager.”
“Does the office have cameras?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
Tessa's eyes narrowed.
“You said you weren't asking me to spy.”
“I'm asking whether you can identify a camera.”
“That's spying with grammar.”
“Fine.”
I sighed.
“Don't do anything you're uncomfortable doing.”
“That's better.”
“Also don't take risks.”
“Now you're bossing me around.”
“I've been told I have experience.”
At 2:55, Tessa locked the bedroom door.
At 3:02, Daniel Price entered through the service hall wearing jeans, sneakers, and a Boston University sweatshirt instead of his usual clinic uniform.
“You look like you're here to repair the plumbing,” I said.
“That was the idea.”
Daniel was forty-one, broad-shouldered, relentlessly cheerful, and one of the few therapists I had not thrown out during my first month of rehabilitation.
He set down his bag.
“Tessa said we're operating a secret physical therapy clinic now.”
“Apparently.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Tessa.
“She serious?”
“Very.”
Daniel's expression changed.
I told him about the canceled sessions.
Not the document.
Not yet.
“Did Arya give a reason?” he asked.
“She thinks therapy doesn't matter.”
Daniel stared at me.
“That's medically ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“You're not plateaued.”
“I know.”
“Your hip flexor response last week was better.”
“I know.”
He crouched in front of me.
“Then let's see what today looks like.”
For the next forty minutes, I sweated harder than I had during entire board meetings.
Daniel moved my legs through assisted exercises.
Tessa stabilized my torso.
We worked on balance.
Transfers.
Core activation.
The humiliating basics of rebuilding a body I used to command without thought.
Then Daniel pressed two fingers against my left quadriceps.
“Again.”
I clenched my teeth.
Nothing.
“Again.”
I concentrated.
My whole body shook.
“Again.”
Something happened.
Tiny.
Barely visible.
But Daniel froze.
“Did you see that?”
Tessa leaned closer.
“His thigh moved.”
Daniel smiled.
“Do it again.”
I tried.
Nothing.
“Don't force it.”
“I can do it.”
“Vincent—”
I closed my eyes.
Every memory of walking suddenly felt like an insult.
Running along the harbor.
Climbing stairs two at a time.
Standing at the altar during someone else's wedding.
Walking into meetings.
Normal things.
Things I had never thanked my body for.
I focused.
A tiny muscle contraction appeared beneath Daniel's fingertips.
His grin widened.
“There.”
Tessa covered her mouth.
I stared at my leg.
I couldn't feel the movement clearly.
But I could see it.
For six months, hope had been something other people handed me because they didn't know what else to say.
For the first time, I had evidence.
Small.
Fragile.
Real.
Daniel looked at me.
“This is exactly why stopping therapy makes no sense.”
I met Tessa's eyes.
And in that instant, the document downstairs became even more dangerous.
If Arya needed doctors to certify that improvement was unlikely, then every movement mattered.
Every therapy session threatened whatever plan she and Dominic had built.
Which meant the tiny contraction in my left leg wasn't just medical progress.
It was evidence.
And if Arya discovered it, I had no idea what she would do next.
That evening, however, she gave me my first clue.
She returned from her dress fitting carrying champagne.
And before she noticed I was watching, I heard her whisper into her phone:
May you like
“Don't worry. By the time the doctors sign the certification, Vincent won't be improving at all.”
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