Chapter 2 - The White Pill
Massimo Rinaldi did not move until the library door closed behind Carla and Nina.
Dean Foster remained near the entrance.
The white pill was still hidden inside Massimo’s fist.
Dean gave a faint smile.
“You’re seriously worried about something Hale dropped on the carpet?”
Massimo opened his hand.
The pill sat against his palm like a tiny piece of chalk.
“I didn’t say I was worried.”
“You sent the kid away.”
“I sent a three-year-old away from an adult conversation.”
Dean shrugged.
“Fair enough.”
Massimo watched him carefully.
For twelve years, Dean had been the easiest man in the world for him to read.
That was one reason Massimo trusted him.
Dean became impatient when he lied.
He rubbed the side of his thumb when he was angry.
He looked people directly in the eye when he threatened them.
And when he was genuinely afraid, his breathing became almost unnaturally slow.
Massimo had seen it twice.
Once before a federal indictment collapsed unexpectedly.
Once when Dean’s younger brother nearly died in surgery.
And once, less than five minutes earlier, when Nina placed the white pill into Massimo’s hand.
Three times.
Massimo closed his fingers again.
“Call Hale.”
Dean’s expression remained controlled.
“Now?”
“Now.”
Dean took out his phone.
Massimo watched every movement.
Dean called.
No answer.
He called again.
Still nothing.
“Probably driving.”
“Probably.”
Dean slipped the phone away.
Massimo nodded toward the whiskey in his hand.
“Leave the bottle.”
Dean looked surprised.
“You’re drinking again?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Massimo’s gray eyes hardened.
“Because I asked you to.”
The old Dean would have smiled.
The old Dean would have thrown some sarcastic answer back at him.
This Dean simply placed the bottle on the desk.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Dean walked toward the door.
Then stopped.
“Massimo.”
Massimo waited.
Dean glanced toward his clenched hand.
“Don’t let the last six months turn you paranoid.”
The words sounded almost compassionate.
Almost.
“You survived something most men wouldn’t.”
Massimo’s expression did not change.
Dean continued.
“You lost the use of your legs.”
“You didn’t lose your judgment.”
“So don’t start seeing enemies in every room.”
Massimo stared at him.
“Good advice.”
Dean nodded once.
Then left.
Massimo waited until the footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
Only then did he reach beneath his wheelchair.
There was a small emergency button hidden under the leather seat.
He pressed it once.
Twenty seconds later, Luca Ferraro entered through the side door.
Luca was forty-three.
Broad shouldered.
Quiet.
He had run the estate’s internal security for nine years.
More importantly, he was one of the few men Dean had never personally recruited.
Massimo held out the pill.
“Touch it with a handkerchief.”
Luca did not ask why.
He removed a clean cloth from his jacket, lifted the pill, and placed it inside an empty envelope.
“I want it tested.”
“By Hale?”
“No.”
That answer changed Luca’s face.
Massimo leaned back.
“No Rinaldi doctor.”
“No family laboratory.”
“No one Dean knows.”
Luca lowered his voice.
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Massimo’s eyes moved toward the hallway.
“That’s the problem.”
Luca tucked the envelope inside his coat.
“How fast?”
“Tonight.”
Luca nodded.
Then Massimo added one more instruction.
“And Luca?”
“Yes?”
“If Dean asks where you went, lie.”
For the first time, Luca looked genuinely alarmed.
Massimo understood why.
People lied to enemies.
People lied to investigators.
People lied to strangers.
Inside the Rinaldi organization, no one lied to Dean Foster unless Massimo ordered it.
Luca gave a slow nod.
“Understood.”
He left through the service corridor.
Massimo remained alone.
Outside the windows, darkness settled over the estate.
For a long time, Massimo stared at his legs.
Nothing.
He hated looking at them.
They were his body, but they no longer felt entirely connected to him.
He placed both palms against the armrests.
Then something Nina had said returned to him.
Your feet are sleeping.
Massimo almost smiled.
Ridiculous.
He closed his eyes.
Then remembered something else.
Earlier that afternoon, while Nina pressed the warm towel around his foot, he had felt something.
Not movement.
Not pain.
Something smaller.
A faint pressure near the underside of his heel.
At the time, he had dismissed it.
Doctors had told him phantom sensations were common.
But now he was no longer certain.
Massimo lowered his right hand.
He pinched the skin above his knee.
Nothing.
He moved lower.
Nothing.
He reached his ankle.
Nothing.
Then he pressed hard against the bottom of his right foot.
For half a second—
there.
Something.
Massimo froze.
He pressed again.
Nothing.
His pulse accelerated.
He pressed harder.
A faint tingling sensation flickered through his heel.
Massimo stared.
Six months.
Six months of examinations.
Six months of pills.
Six months of specialists telling him the same thing.
Permanent.
Irreversible.
Impossible.
Massimo grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled the wheelchair closer.
He stared at his right foot.
“Move.”
Nothing happened.
His jaw tightened.
“Move.”
Nothing.
He almost laughed bitterly at himself.
Then the door opened.
Camille entered.
Massimo immediately leaned back.
She wore a long ivory robe over her evening clothes.
“You skipped dinner.”
“Not hungry.”
Camille walked behind him.
Her hands settled gently on his shoulders.
“You need to eat.”
“I’ll survive.”
She bent and kissed his temple.
Once, that gesture would have meant something.
Now Massimo noticed how cold her lips felt.
“The wedding planner called.”
Massimo’s gaze remained fixed on the dark window.
“Of course she did.”
“She needs final approval on the guest list.”
“Handle it.”
Camille smiled.
“I already have.”
Massimo glanced toward her.
She moved toward the fireplace.
“Dean thinks we should move the ceremony forward.”
There it was again.
Dean.
Always Dean.
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been miserable.”
“And marriage cures spinal damage?”
Camille’s smile thinned.
“I’m trying to give you something to look forward to.”
Massimo said nothing.
She approached him again.
“You know I love you.”
Massimo looked directly at her.
For the first time since the ambush, he wondered if Camille had ever meant those words.
Before he could answer, his phone vibrated.
A message from Luca.
Only four words.
I found someone independent.
Massimo deleted it immediately.
Camille noticed.
“Who was that?”
“Business.”
“At this hour?”
“Crime has terrible office hours.”
That earned a reluctant smile.
Camille kissed him again.
Then left.
Massimo listened until her footsteps vanished.
He looked down.
The fire cast wavering orange light across the polished leather of his shoes.
He concentrated on his right foot.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Nothing.
Then he remembered Nina’s warm basin.
Heat.
Pressure.
Her small hands pressing the towel against his skin.
Massimo rolled toward the fireplace.
He extended his right leg closer to the warmth.
Minutes passed.
His eyes never left his shoe.
Then—
the leather moved.
Barely.
His smallest toe twitched.
Massimo stopped breathing.
He stared at it.
Nothing happened again.
But he had seen it.
He knew what he had seen.
His toe had moved.
And somewhere in the mansion, the men who had spent six months convincing Massimo Rinaldi that his body was dead below the waist had just become the most dangerous men alive.
Because Massimo’s legs were not dead.
They had been kept quiet.
May you like
And now—
one of them had begun to wake.
