Chapter 2 - THE INVISIBLE THREAD
The metallic click of the safety disengaging echoed in the suffocating silence of the bedroom. It was a sound I had only ever heard in movies, but in real life, it carried a weight that made the air freeze in my lungs. Massimo Pascale wasn’t looking at the unconscious guard on the floor anymore. His dark, impenetrable eyes were locked entirely on me.
“Who hired you?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it possessed a lethal edge that cut straight through the room.
I stared at the barrel of the gun. My mind, usually sharp and analytical, blanked entirely. The doctoral student who could memorize the entire human nervous system in a weekend was suddenly incapable of forming a coherent sentence.
“Camila,” I choked out, my voice trembling. “Camila hired me. You know this. Your family’s attorneys arranged the contract.”
Massimo took a step forward. His legs, which I had spent the last six weeks desperately trying to wake up, held his weight with a rigid, unnatural stiffness. He was in pain—I could see it in the tight cords of his neck and the slight tremor in his left thigh—but adrenaline and sheer willpower were keeping him upright.
“Camila works for my uncle,” Massimo stated coldly, closing the distance between us. “And my uncle is the one who cut the brakes on my car three months ago.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. Organized crime. Camila had warned me. She had looked me in the eye in that small café and told me I was working for a dangerous family. But she had framed it as if I was protecting Massimo from his own reputation, not from his own blood.
“I didn’t know,” I said, stepping back until my spine hit the cold plaster of the wall. “I swear to you, Massimo. I just needed the tuition money. I didn’t know anything about your uncle, or hitmen, or whatever sick family politics you have going on. I’m just a physical therapist!”
He studied my face. For ten agonizing seconds, he searched my eyes for a lie. In his world, trust was a liability, and mercy was a death sentence. I braced myself, half expecting him to pull the trigger and eliminate the uncertain variable that I represented. Instead, he lowered the weapon slightly.
“Pack your bag,” he ordered.
“What?”
“Pack the medical bag, Tessa. Now.” He winced, his hand flying to his side where a dark stain was blossoming through his expensive cotton shirt. It wasn’t his blood, he had said earlier, but the exertion of standing was clearly tearing at his healing surgical scars.
“You’re hurt,” I said, the instinct of a medical professional temporarily overriding my terror.
“I’ll be dead if we stay here,” he snapped, leaning heavily against the bedpost. “There are twelve armed men outside. Two of them were loyal to me. This one—” he kicked the unconscious guard at his feet “—was one of them. Which means my uncle has bought the rest.”
I scrambled to the bedside table, shoving gauze, antiseptic, bandages, and my assessment tools into the leather medical bag. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped a roll of tape twice.
“We need to leave through the service elevator,” Massimo said, his breathing growing shallower. “It leads directly to the underground garage. I have a car down there that isn't on the estate's manifest.”
“You can’t walk that far,” I told him, zipping the bag shut and rushing to his side. “You’ve only been standing for three days. Your stabilizing muscles haven’t rebuilt enough. You’ll collapse before we make it to the hallway.”
“Then you’re going to carry me, doc,” he grimaced, throwing his heavy, muscular arm over my shoulder.
The sheer weight of him almost brought me to my knees. He was a large man, built like a fortress, and I was exactly what he had called me on my first day: too small. But desperation gave me strength. I wrapped my arm tightly around his waist, my fingers gripping the belt loops of his slacks, and together, we moved.
Every step was an excruciating battle. I could feel the violent tremors in his legs as he forced his damaged nervous system to obey his commands. The hallway was empty, shadows stretching long and menacing across the imported marble floors.
“If someone sees us—” I started.
“Keep your head down and keep moving,” he interrupted, his jaw tight with agony.
We reached the service elevator. I slammed my hand against the call button. The wait felt like an eternity. Down the hall, a door clicked open. A voice called out, “Marco? You good in there?”
Massimo’s grip on my shoulder tightened painfully. He raised the gun with his free hand, aiming it down the corridor. The elevator doors chimed and slid open. I dragged him inside, hitting the garage button and throwing us against the back wall just as a man stepped into the hallway.
The doors closed, sealing us in the metallic box. Massimo dropped his arm, his head falling back against the wall as he gasped for air. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“You believed me,” I whispered, looking at the gun resting on his thigh. “Why?”
Massimo turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my heart race for an entirely different reason.
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“Because when I dropped that glass on your fourth day,” he murmured, his breath hot in the confined space, “you told me to pick it up myself. An assassin would have just cleaned it up to stay in my good graces. You’re just a stubborn, terrifyingly bossy nurse.”
The elevator jolted to a halt. The real nightmare was just beginning.
