Chapter 3 - THE UNDERGROUND KING
Z
The underground garage was an expansive cavern of concrete and shadows, smelling faintly of motor oil and damp earth. Rows of luxury vehicles sat in silent perfection, but Massimo bypassed the polished black SUVs and the sleek sports cars. Leaning heavily on me, his breath ragged in my ear, he directed us toward the darkest corner of the structure.
Hidden beneath a gray canvas tarp was a vintage, unassuming dark blue sedan. It looked entirely out of place in a billionaire mob boss’s garage.
“Keys are in the wheel well,” Massimo grunted, his knees finally buckling.
I caught him before he hit the concrete, my arms straining under his solid mass. Lowering him gently against the side of the car, I frantically dropped to my knees, feeling blindly behind the front left tire. My fingers brushed against a magnetic lockbox. I pulled it free, popping it open to reveal a single, dull silver key.
“Get in the back,” he instructed, his voice tight. “Keep your head below the windows.”
“I’m driving?” Panic flared in my chest. “Massimo, I drive a ten-year-old Honda Civic. I don’t know how to drive a getaway car for the mafia!”
“It has four wheels and a steering wheel, Tessa. Figure it out.” He dragged himself up by the door handle, refusing my help this time as he maneuvered his uncooperative legs into the passenger seat. He was pushing himself too hard; I knew the anatomical consequences of what he was doing. His lumbar spine was under immense pressure.
I jumped into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life with a startlingly quiet hum—modified, I realized. As I shifted into gear, the heavy steel doors of the garage began to rumble open, triggered by a remote Massimo had pulled from the glovebox.
“Headlights off until we clear the gates,” he commanded.
I eased the car into the biting October night. Rain had started to fall, slicking the winding driveway that led to the estate's rear exit. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every shadow looked like an armed guard; every flash of lightning felt like a muzzle flash.
We cleared the iron gates without triggering an alarm. The moment we hit the main road, I slammed my foot on the gas, the sedan tearing down the wet asphalt toward the glowing skyline of Boston in the distance.
For twenty minutes, neither of us spoke. The silence was heavy, thick with the unsaid realities of what had just happened. I was an accessory to… something. A kidnapping? An escape? I had aided a notorious crime boss. My career wasn’t just in jeopardy; my life was.
“Take the next exit,” Massimo finally said, his voice weaker than before.
I glanced at him. His head was rolled back against the leather headrest, his face terrifyingly pale in the intermittent glow of the streetlights. The dark stain on his shirt had spread.
“You’re bleeding again,” I said, panic edging into my tone. “I need to take you to a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” he bit out, his eyes snapping open. “My uncle’s men will be watching every ER from here to Providence. Exit 14. Take a left at the fork.”
“Massimo, you just forced a paralyzed spine to bear two hundred pounds of weight. You could have micro-tears in your surgical sites. You could hemorrhage!”
“Drive the damn car, Tessa.”
I swallowed my medical ethics and gripped the steering wheel harder, following his directions. We drove deep into the industrial district of South Boston, an area characterized by abandoned warehouses and rusting shipyards. He guided me to a nondescript brick building squeezed between a defunct textile mill and a chain-link fence.
“Pull inside,” he said, pressing another remote. A rusted garage door rolled up, revealing a stark, brilliantly lit interior that looked nothing like the decaying facade.
Once parked, I rushed to his side of the car, hauling him out. This time, he didn't protest. He was losing strength rapidly. I supported his weight as we staggered into the safehouse—a sprawling, minimalist loft equipped with military-grade security screens, an armory of weapons on one wall, and, surprisingly, a fully stocked medical bay.
We collapsed onto a leather sofa in the center of the room. Massimo let out a low groan, his hand clutching his abdomen.
“Shirt off,” I ordered, instantly shifting from terrified hostage to medical professional. “Now.”
He smirked weakly, his dark eyes glinting despite the pain. “Buy me a drink first, doc.”
“I’ll buy you a gravestone if you don’t let me look at that wound,” I snapped, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from my bag. Without waiting for his compliance, I cut the expensive fabric straight up the middle.
The injury wasn't a gunshot wound, thankfully. It was a brutal, deep laceration across his ribs—likely sustained when he tackled the guard who had tried to drug him. The stitches from his spinal surgery, however, were inflamed and angry, threatening to rupture.
I moved mechanically, grabbing antiseptic, sutures, and gauze from the safehouse’s supply cabinet. I knelt between his parted legs, cleaning the blood from his hardened torso.
“You’re good under pressure,” he noted, his gaze tracking my every movement.
“I’m terrified,” I corrected, tying off a suture with trembling, blood-stained fingers. “But I can’t afford to let you die. You still owe me fifty thousand dollars.”
Massimo laughed, a genuine, deep sound that filled the sterile room. “You’re negotiating your salary while stitching up a mob boss on the run?”
“I have student loans,” I replied deadpan, taping the bandage down.
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When I looked up, my face was mere inches from his. The amusement in his eyes had vanished, replaced by an intense, burning scrutiny that made my breath hitch. I was suddenly hyper-aware of his bare skin, the heat radiating from his chest, and the dangerous reality of being entirely alone with a man who commanded shadows.
“You saved my life tonight, Tessa,” he said quietly, his hand coming up to wrap around my wrist. His thumb brushed over my pulse point. “I don’t forget debts. And I never leave them unpaid.”
