Chapter 2 - 2
Massimo Pascale picked up the pen, stared at the contract for three long seconds, and then did something I hadn't expected.
He signed it.
But before I could feel relieved, he looked straight into my eyes and said, “The last woman who tried to fix me ended up in the hospital.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my medical bag.
“Was she injured during treatment?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
His expression turned unreadable.
“She trusted the wrong person.”
Before I could ask another question, someone knocked on the door.
Three sharp knocks.
Massimo's entire demeanor changed.
“Come in.”
A tall man in an expensive charcoal suit entered without waiting for further permission. He had Massimo's dark hair and sharp cheekbones, but his smile was polished in a way Massimo's wasn't.
“Little brother,” the stranger said warmly. “I heard we had another brave volunteer.”
Massimo didn't smile.
“Adrian.”
The man turned toward me.
“And you must be Miss Fitzgerald.”
He offered his hand.
“Adrian Pascale. Massimo's older brother.”
I shook it.
His grip lasted a second longer than necessary.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
I withdrew my hand.
“Qualified,” I corrected.
Massimo made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Adrian's smile faltered.
“Of course.”
He walked behind Massimo's wheelchair and rested a hand on his shoulder.
I noticed how Massimo immediately stiffened.
“I'm glad you're finally accepting help,” Adrian continued. “The family has been worried.”
“Since when?”
“Massimo.”
“Answer the question.”
Adrian sighed theatrically.
“See what you're dealing with, Miss Fitzgerald? He's impossible.”
I looked between them.
“Recovery can be frustrating. That doesn't make someone impossible.”
Adrian's eyes narrowed slightly.
Then he smiled again.
“Well, I hope you're more successful than your predecessors.”
He leaned closer to me.
“Just remember, some things in this house are better left alone.”
Massimo's voice cut through the room.
“Get out.”
Adrian straightened.
“I'm only trying to help.”
“You've helped enough.”
For one brief moment, the brothers stared at each other with a hatred so naked that I felt like an intruder.
Then Adrian adjusted his cuff links.
“Dinner at eight, brother. Mother expects you.”
He walked toward the door, paused beside me, and lowered his voice.
“Be careful, Miss Fitzgerald. Massimo doesn't always remember things the way they happened.”
Then he left.
The silence afterward was suffocating.
I turned toward Massimo.
“Your brother seems charming.”
“He's a snake.”
“That's a medical diagnosis I can't confirm.”
Massimo looked at me.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
This time the sound lasted longer.
And for the first time since entering the mansion, I saw something other than anger in his face.
He looked almost human.
Almost.
“Let's begin,” I said.
“Now?”
“You hired me to work.”
“I just signed the contract.”
“And your muscles don't care about paperwork.”
He watched as I pulled a chair beside him.
I began with questions about his injury, previous treatment, medications, and daily function.
He answered reluctantly.
Eight months earlier, his armored SUV had crashed on a winding road outside Chicago.
The driver had died.
Massimo had survived with a spinal injury, broken ribs, and a severe concussion.
He'd spent weeks in intensive care.
Then months in rehabilitation.
According to the records I'd received, his lower-body function had improved slightly before reaching a plateau.
But something bothered me.
“Your MRI report mentions an incomplete spinal cord injury,” I said.
“So?”
“So your rehabilitation notes describe changes that deserve another specialist review.”
His expression sharpened.
“What kind of changes?”
“Intermittent muscle activation. Some preserved sensation. None of that guarantees walking, but it means we should be careful about assuming you've reached your limit.”
He leaned forward.
“Are you saying my doctors were wrong?”
“I'm saying I need to understand why your recent assessments are so different from your earlier ones.”
Massimo stared at me.
Then he whispered something I almost didn't hear.
“I knew it.”
I looked up.
“Knew what?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached beneath his wheelchair and pressed a small button.
Within seconds, the guard returned.
“Luca,” Massimo said, “bring me the medical records from the hospital. The originals.”
Luca hesitated.
“Sir, your brother instructed—”
“I don't care what my brother instructed.”
The guard nodded and disappeared.
I watched Massimo carefully.
“Why would your brother control your medical records?”
His face hardened.
“Because while I was unconscious, Adrian took control of everything.”
“Your company?”
“My company. My accounts. My security. My doctors.”
He looked toward the windows.
“And almost my life.”
A cold sensation traveled down my spine.
I reminded myself not to confuse suspicion with evidence.
“Massimo, if you're concerned about your care, we can arrange an independent medical review.”
He turned back toward me.
“That's why you're here.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
He studied my face.
“Tell me something, Miss Fitzgerald. Who recommended you for this job?”
“My former supervisor. Dr. Camila Reyes.”
“And who recommended you to her?”
I hesitated.
“I don't know.”
Massimo's expression darkened.
“Find out.”
Before I could respond, Luca returned carrying a leather folder.
He placed it on the desk.
Massimo opened it and removed several documents.
I leaned closer.
The first was a hospital discharge summary.
The second contained imaging reports.
The third was a medication administration record.
I scanned the pages.
Then stopped.
There was a discrepancy.
A sedating medication had been documented during a period when Massimo was supposed to be undergoing neurological testing.
That didn't prove wrongdoing. There could have been a legitimate clinical reason, or a documentation error.
But it was important enough to investigate.
“Who ordered this?” I asked.
Massimo glanced at the page.
“Dr. Victor Hale.”
“Your neurologist?”
“My brother's personal physician.”
I looked up.
“Do you have the original medication orders?”
“No.”
“Then we need them before drawing conclusions.”
Massimo watched me silently.
Finally, he said, “You're the first person who's asked.”
“Asked what?”
“Whether the records tell the truth.”
Something in his voice made my chest tighten.
For a moment, I saw the man beneath the expensive clothes and dangerous reputation.
A man who had awakened in a hospital unable to move his legs, surrounded by people who controlled his future.
I closed the folder.
“Tomorrow, we'll start with a full functional assessment. And I'll help you arrange a review with an independent physician.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he asked, “Are you afraid yet?”
I considered lying.
Instead, I said, “A little.”
He looked surprised.
“But I'm still here.”
His eyes softened.
Just slightly.
That evening, a housekeeper named Rosa showed me to my room on the second floor.
The mansion was enormous, with polished floors, antique paintings, and security cameras positioned at nearly every intersection.
Rosa was a small woman in her sixties with kind eyes and nervous hands.
As she placed fresh towels on my bed, she glanced toward the hallway.
“Miss Fitzgerald?”
“Yes?”
“Please don't go into the west wing.”
“Why?”
Her lips trembled.
“That's where the accident started.”
I stared at her.
“I thought the accident happened on a road.”
Rosa looked toward the door.
Then she whispered, “That's what they told the police.”
Before I could question her, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Rosa immediately straightened.
“Good night, miss.”
She hurried away.
I stood alone in the luxurious bedroom, feeling the first real chill of fear.
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A text message.
YOU WERE NOT HIRED TO MAKE HIM WALK.
Another message arrived.
YOU WERE HIRED TO MAKE SURE HE NEVER DOES.
I stared at the screen.
And before I could even decide whether to call the police, a photograph appeared beneath the messages.
It showed me entering Massimo's mansion that afternoon.
Taken from inside the house.
May you like
Someone was watching me.
And whoever it was knew exactly why I had come.
