Chapter 6 - A Hand on the Trigger
The physical therapy room in the estate’s west wing looked like a medieval torture chamber disguised as a gym. Parallel bars, weighted pulleys, resistance bands, and a raised rehabilitation mat dominated the space.
It was 7:00 AM.
Vincenzo stood between the parallel bars, his knuckles white as his left hand gripped the polished steel. His right arm hung limp at his side, the fingers curled in a spastic claw. Sweat poured off his bald head, soaking his gray cotton undershirt.
"Again," Norah ordered, her voice merciless. She knelt beside his right leg, her hands firmly gripping his ankle and calf. "Shift your center of gravity to the left. Engage the core. Move the right heel forward. Do not drag the toe."
Vincenzo let out an animalistic roar. He threw his weight forward, his right knee collapsing inward.
"No!" Norah shouted, catching his thigh with both arms, bracing him before he could crash into the mat. Pain flared along her bruised shin, but she ignored it, teeth gritted. "You're leaning on your good hip! If you do that in front of the Commission, Marcone will see it in two seconds. Square your shoulders!"
Vincenzo glared down at her, his chest heaving, his face bright crimson. "C-Cannot!" he spat, saliva spraying from his lips.
"You can!" Norah rose, stepping directly into his face, invading his space just as she had on day one. "You ruled New York for forty years through sheer, ruthless discipline. You built an empire on blood and fear. Are you telling me a cluster of dead brain cells is stronger than you? Is that what Vincenzo Moretti is? A coward who quits when the weight gets heavy?"
Behind her, Leo leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, watching in grim fascination.
Vincenzo’s good eye blazed with homicidal fury. He clamped his teeth together until they ground audibly. Slowly, with agonized deliberation, he pulled his shoulders back. He centered his hips.
His right foot lifted. It shook violently, the damaged nerves firing chaotic, frantic signals, but the foot moved forward—four inches, six inches—and planted flat on the rubber mat. Heel first.
Norah held her breath. "Now the left."
He brought the left foot forward to match.
He was standing unsupported by her hands. Only his left fist gripped the parallel bar.
"Let go of the bar," Norah whispered.
Leo stepped forward, his body tense, ready to dive. "Norah—"
"Quiet, Leo," she commanded without looking back. "Let go of the bar, Vincenzo. Show your son."
Vincenzo looked at his son. Then he looked at Norah.
Slowly, agonizingly, his left fingers uncurled from the cold steel.
He stood in the center of the room. Unassisted. Balanced. A battered, stroke-ravaged king refusing to fall off his throne.
For ten full seconds, the only sound in the room was his ragged breathing.
Then, Vincenzo turned his head toward the full-length mirror on the wall. He stared at his reflection—the droop in his lip, the stiff posture—and then, with monstrous effort, he forced his left hand down to the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a black silk handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow with the elegance of an emperor.
"Tomorrow," Vincenzo rasped, his voice holding a terrifying, gravelly resonance that hadn't been there forty-eight hours ago. "I... walk."
Norah let out a ragged breath, tears pricking the corners of her eyes despite herself. She stepped back, allowing the medical triumph to wash over her. "Thirty minutes of rest, then we practice sitting down and standing up without the armrests."
She walked past Leo toward the corridor to get more water, but as she passed him, his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
He pulled her into the alcove outside the room, out of his father's line of sight.
"You're a miracle worker," Leo whispered, his gray eyes burning with an intense, unreadable fire.
"I'm a physical therapist," she corrected, though her heart did a frantic dance against her ribs at his proximity. "He did the work. He wants to live."
"He wants vengeance," Leo said darkly. "There's a difference. But whatever it is, you gave it to him." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an American passport, a first-class ticket to Geneva, and a black titanium debit card.
Norah looked at the documents in his hand. "What is this?"
"Your exit," Leo said, his voice tightening. "A private helicopter lands on the south lawn in two hours. It will take you to JFK. By midnight, you’ll be in Switzerland. The account has two million dollars. Untraceable."
Norah felt a sudden, inexplicable stab of hurt in her chest. "You're getting rid of me?"
"I'm saving you!" Leo hissed, stepping closer, trapping her against the paneled wall. "The Grand Council meeting tomorrow isn't a diplomatic negotiation, Norah. It’s an ambush. Marcone has bribed half the Commission. There will be blood on that boardroom table before midnight. If my father stumbles—even once—the shooting starts. I cannot protect you and wage a war at the same time."
Norah looked down at the passport. Two million dollars. Complete freedom. Her student loans gone, her family safe in Europe, her life restored to ordinary, peaceful safety.
Everything she had wanted the day she took this job.
Then she looked up into Leo Moretti’s eyes. She saw the exhaustion beneath the lethal exterior. She saw the lonely boy who had been forced to kill his uncle at sixteen, carrying the crushing weight of an empire on his broken shoulders.
She took the passport and the ticket.
And then, with slow, deliberate precision, she tore the plane ticket in half.
Leo stared at the torn paper fluttering to the floor, his jaw slacking in utter shock. "Are you out of your mind?"
"If your father stumbles tomorrow," Norah said, her voice steady and ice-cold, "he needs someone who knows how to brace his femoral joint without making it look like a medical emergency. I am his therapist. I don't abandon my patients before the final evaluation."
Leo grabbed her shoulders, his fingers digging into her flesh, his control finally fracturing. "You could die, Norah!"
"Then you’d better make sure you don't miss when you pull the trigger, Leo," she whispered.
May you like
Leo stared at her, his chest heaving, his pale eyes blazing with a mixture of rage, awe, and desperate, overwhelming desire. He didn't speak. He slammed his mouth down onto hers.
***
