Chapter 7 - THE FIRST STEP
Marco never reached Sebastian.
His men tried.
They entered through the underground parking garage disguised as private security contractors.
What they didn’t know was that Gabriel had spent the previous three hours quietly replacing every clinic guard with Lombardi loyalists.
The attack lasted less than four minutes.
By the time police sirens appeared in the distance, Marco’s men were either gone or in custody.
Marco himself escaped.
Again.
Sebastian was furious.
I was exhausted.
Oliver was eating vanilla pudding in a hospital room like attempted murder was simply another weird Tuesday.
“Mr. Sebastian?”
Sebastian looked over.
Oliver held out the second pudding cup.
“You want one?”
“No.”
“It’s good.”
“I believe you.”
“You look like you need pudding.”
I covered my face.
Sebastian stared at Oliver.
Then accepted it.
That was the moment I realized something dangerous.
I was beginning to see the man beneath the reputation.
And I wasn’t sure that was safe.
Three days later, Sebastian moved us to another property outside the city.
No staff except people Gabriel personally trusted.
No visitors.
No Mercer.
No Carlo.
No Marco.
For the first time, rehabilitation began.
Real rehabilitation.
Dr. Shah established the medical plan.
I handled the daily physical work.
And Sebastian hated me by breakfast every morning.
“Again.”
“I did it.”
“You moved half an inch.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does if yesterday you moved a quarter inch.”
He glared.
I smiled.
“Again.”
The first goal was not walking.
It was control.
Contract one muscle.
Release it.
Shift weight.
Activate the core.
Move the right foot deliberately.
Then the left.
Weeks of inactivity would have been difficult.
Twenty years had transformed difficult into brutal.
Sebastian’s muscles cramped.
His blood pressure fluctuated.
Scar tissue restricted movement.
His shoulders had spent decades doing work his legs should have shared.
Some mornings, nothing responded.
Those mornings were the hardest.
After six days of progress, Sebastian woke and could barely move his right foot.
He threw a water bottle across the therapy room.
“Get out.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
His face darkened.
“I said get out.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why are you still standing there?”
“Because your body isn’t a criminal organization.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You can’t threaten it into obeying.”
“I’m not threatening—”
“You’re angry because yesterday was better.”
He looked away.
I walked closer.
“Recovery is not a staircase. It’s weather. Some days you get sunlight. Some days Chicago dumps twelve inches of snow on your head.”
“That might be the worst motivational speech ever given.”
“It got you listening.”
He almost smiled.
Then his expression changed.
“What if this is all I get?”
There it was.
The fear.
Not the mafia boss.
The twenty-two-year-old in the hospital bed.
“What if the foot moves and nothing else?”
I sat across from him.
“Then we celebrate the foot.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“You think I measure victory by walking?”
“Don’t you?”
“I measure it by truth.”
He stared at me.
“For twenty years, you were told your body was dead below the waist. That was a lie. Whether you walk across this room someday or never leave the chair, the truth still belongs to you now.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Sebastian placed his hand over mine.
It was the first time he touched me without anger.
“Again,” he said.
So we worked.
Two days later, he lifted his right heel off the platform.
Oliver cheered so loudly Gabriel came running with a gun.
A week later, Sebastian managed to extend his knee while supported.
Three days after that, he stood.
Not alone.
Not gracefully.
A harness supported part of his weight.
Parallel bars supported the rest.
I stood in front of him.
Dr. Shah monitored his vitals.
Gabriel stood near the wall pretending not to be emotional.
Oliver sat in a chair holding his breath.
Sebastian’s arms shook as he pushed upward.
His knees almost collapsed immediately.
“Lock them,” I said.
“I’m trying.”
“Again.”
“I’m going to fire you.”
“You don’t employ me.”
“I’ll buy wherever you work and then fire you.”
“Stand first.”
His eyes flashed.
He pushed.
His hips rose.
For the first time in twenty years, Sebastian Lombardi stood upright.
Supported.
Shaking.
Sweating.
Terrified.
But standing.
Nobody spoke.
Sebastian looked at his reflection in the mirror.
The expression on his face broke something inside me.
He had forgotten how tall he was.
Oliver whispered, “Whoa.”
Sebastian laughed.
Then his knees buckled.
We lowered him safely into the chair.
He covered his face with both hands.
I crouched in front of him.
“You did it.”
He shook his head.
“I stood.”
“Yes.”
“I stood.”
His voice cracked.
Gabriel turned away.
I pretended not to notice.
Sebastian looked at me.
Then, without warning, he pulled me into his arms.
It was not romantic.
Not at first.
It was desperation.
Relief.
Grief for twenty stolen years.
I held him.
And then his face turned slightly.
Our eyes met.
Something changed.
The room suddenly felt too quiet.
He released me first.
Oliver broke the tension.
“Are you guys going to kiss?”
I stood so fast I nearly fell.
Gabriel coughed violently.
Sebastian looked at Oliver.
“No.”
Oliver shrugged.
“You looked like it.”
Later that night, Gabriel brought us news.
Mercer had been found.
Alive.
Hiding in Wisconsin.
Federal agents had taken him into custody after Gabriel anonymously delivered financial evidence connecting him to fraudulent medical records.
“He wants immunity,” Gabriel said.
Sebastian’s expression hardened.
“For what?”
“For telling prosecutors who ordered the 2006 bombing.”
“Carlo.”
“Yes.”
Gabriel hesitated.
“And he says he has proof.”
Sebastian looked toward me.
“What kind?”
“A recording made by your father the night before he died.”
Sebastian stopped breathing.
Gabriel placed an old digital recorder on the table.
“We haven’t played it.”
Sebastian stared at it.
His hand shook.
“Why not?”
Gabriel answered softly.
“Because it’s your father’s voice.”
Sebastian reached for the recorder.
May you like
Then stopped.
For the first time since I met him, the most feared man in Chicago looked afraid to press a button.
