Chapter 2 - THE LEG THAT MOVED
“Someone making sure I never get out of this chair.”
I stared at Massimo.
Five minutes earlier, I had assumed his worst enemy was his own pride.
Now he was suggesting someone inside his mansion wanted him disabled.
“Who?”
“If I knew, they wouldn’t still be breathing comfortably.”
“That answer is exactly why your nurses probably quit.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“You think I’m paranoid.”
“I think you’re angry, frightened, and accustomed to solving uncertainty by threatening people.”
His amusement disappeared.
“Careful.”
“No. That’s what you’re paying fifty thousand dollars for.”
“I’m paying you to rehabilitate my legs.”
“Then stop trying to intimidate the person touching them.”
For a moment, I thought I had pushed too far.
Then Massimo rolled backward.
“Seven tomorrow.”
It was permission.
Barely.
At 6:58 the next morning, I entered his bedroom.
He was already awake.
On his bedside table sat a silver wristwatch with a cracked face.
It had stopped at 9:17.
“You're early,” he said.
“You're awake.”
“I don't sleep much.”
I checked his medication chart.
Gabapentin. Baclofen. Pain medication. Anticoagulant. Supplements.
Everything looked ordinary.
Until I checked his legs.
The muscle tone was dramatically different from the previous afternoon.
Too different.
“Did someone stretch you last night?”
“No.”
“Spasms?”
“Some.”
“How bad?”
“Worse around three.”
I tested sensation.
“Tell me when you feel pressure.”
Nothing at his calf.
Nothing at his ankle.
Then my thumb pressed beneath his right foot.
His toes moved.
I froze.
Massimo noticed.
“What?”
I repeated the stimulus.
Nothing.
Again.
His big toe twitched.
“Do that yourself.”
“I am.”
“No. Move your toe.”
His jaw tightened.
Nothing happened.
Then—
Movement.
Tiny.
But voluntary.
Massimo stared at his foot.
I saw something pass over his face that probably hadn't been there in months.
Hope.
It vanished almost immediately.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
His hand closed around the armrest.
“How long?”
“Too early to know.”
“You said it moved.”
“It did. That doesn’t mean I promise you’ll walk.”
He looked furious at my caution.
Good.
Anger was safer than false hope.
We worked for forty minutes.
By the end, sweat covered his forehead and his hands trembled from gripping the support bar.
He hated every second.
He also refused to stop.
During a transfer, his knee suddenly buckled.
I caught his torso against mine.
His weight nearly took us both down.
His arm locked around my shoulders.
For one strange second, neither of us moved.
“You’re too small,” he murmured.
I was breathing hard.
“You’re still too rude.”
That almost-smile appeared again.
Then his right thigh contracted.
Not reflexively.
Deliberately.
I lowered him into the chair.
“Again.”
He tried.
The muscle tightened.
Massimo looked at me.
This time, neither of us pretended it meant nothing.
Someone cleared his throat.
A man stood in the doorway.
Late forties. Expensive gray suit. Dark hair threaded with silver.
“Interesting.”
Massimo's expression hardened.
“Tessa, this is my brother, Vittorio.”
Vittorio Pascale smiled pleasantly.
“The miracle worker.”
“Physical therapist.”
“Doctor?”
“Not yet.”
“Almost,” Massimo said.
I looked at him.
I hadn't told him about my tuition.
Camila had.
Vittorio walked closer.
“Three nurses before you. None lasted ten days.”
“So everyone keeps reminding me.”
“They found my brother difficult.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Vittorio laughed.
Massimo didn't.
My eyes returned to the medication tray.
One tablet looked wrong.
Same shape as the prescribed muscle relaxant.
Slightly different color.
I picked it up.
“Who prepares these?”
Massimo looked toward Vittorio.
“My house physician.”
“Dr. Rinaldi?”
Vittorio answered. “Yes.”
I held up the pill.
“This isn't the same manufacturer as the others.”
Vittorio shrugged.
“Pharmacies change suppliers.”
“They do.”
I slipped it into a specimen envelope from my bag.
“But they usually document it.”
Vittorio's smile thinned.
Massimo noticed.
“Problem?”
“Probably not.”
I hated those two words the moment I said them.
Because Massimo had already told me someone wanted him in the chair.
Now I had found an unexplained medication.
That afternoon, I called the clinic pharmacist I trusted and gave him the imprint code without identifying the patient.
His answer made my stomach drop.
The pill wasn't baclofen.
It was a higher-dose sedative.
Enough to cause weakness, confusion, poor balance, and delayed motor response.
Not enough to kill him.
Enough to sabotage rehabilitation.
I returned to Massimo's room.
He was staring at the cracked watch.
“What happened at 9:17?” I asked.
His eyes lifted.
“Why?”
“Your watch stopped then.”
“The accident.”
I glanced at it again.
“You were wearing it?”
“My father gave it to me when I turned eighteen.”
He took the watch from the table.
“The glass broke when the car went over the embankment.”
“Were you alone?”
A long silence.
“No.”
Before I could ask more, his right leg jerked violently.
Then his left.
His whole body stiffened.
“Massimo?”
His breathing changed.
I checked his pupils.
“Did you take anything?”
“Morning medication.”
“Anything after?”
“No.”
I grabbed his chart.
Someone had signed off an additional afternoon dose.
Initials I didn't recognize.
Massimo saw my face.
“What?”
I pulled open the medication drawer.
Three tablets were missing.
“Who came in here?”
“No one.”
“Think.”
His eyes narrowed.
“My mother.”
“When?”
“While you were downstairs.”
I went still.
Massimo's mother had personally handled his medication.
“Why would she—”
He suddenly grabbed my wrist.
Hard.
“Tessa.”
His voice had changed.
I followed his stare.
His right foot was planted on the floor.
Slowly, impossibly, his heel lifted.
Then dropped.
Once.
Twice.
Massimo stared at his own leg.
I should have been celebrating.
Instead, I looked at the medication drawer.
If the wrong pills had been weakening him for months, then his condition wasn't what everyone believed.
He might have been recovering all along.
And somebody knew it.
That evening I tested the remaining pills.
Two were legitimate.
Four weren't.
Massimo watched me line them across the table.
“So I’m not paranoid.”
“No.”
“Vittorio?”
“I don't know.”
“My mother?”
“I don't know.”
His expression turned cold.
“Then find out.”
“I’m a physical therapist, not an investigator.”
“You’re the only person in this house who noticed.”
That silenced me.
He picked up the cracked watch.
The back casing had loosened from the impact.
As he turned it, something slipped from beneath the metal plate and landed on the table.
A tiny folded piece of paper.
Massimo frowned.
“I’ve never seen that.”
I unfolded it.
Three handwritten words appeared beside a date from four months earlier.
ASK ELENA. 9:17.
Massimo stopped breathing.
“Who’s Elena?” I whispered.
His face had gone completely still.
“My wife.”
I waited.
Then he looked at me.
“She was in the car with me.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is she now?”
May you like
Massimo's answer came quietly.
“Nobody knows.”
