PART 2
I looked at Sebastian Lombardi sitting in front of the fire, the orange light cutting sharp shadows across his face, and for one second I forgot how dangerous the room was.
Not because I wasn’t afraid.
I was.
I could feel Gabriel standing behind me like a locked door. I could feel the weight of the blindfold still pressed into my skin, the memory of every turn I had counted during the drive fading into uncertainty. I could feel the money in my bag, heavy enough to save my son and dirty enough to make me hate myself for taking it.
But beneath all of that, something older took over.
Training.
Instinct.
The part of me that had once walked into hospital rooms full of frightened families, broken bodies, and impossible recoveries and learned not to flinch.
I set my equipment bag down beside the treatment table Gabriel had arranged near the windows.
“I don’t believe I’ll succeed,” I said.
Sebastian’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“That’s not a promising beginning.”
“It’s an honest one.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Honesty is usually what people offer right before they disappoint me.”
“I can’t promise you a miracle, Mr. Lombardi. I don’t sell those.” I looked at his wheelchair, then at his shoulders, the way his left hand rested tighter on the armrest than his right. “I can only tell you what I see, what I feel, and whether your body is telling a different story than your doctors did.”
The room went very quiet.
For the first time since I had arrived, Sebastian looked fully at me.
Not at my worn shoes.
Not at my tired face.
At me.
“And what story do you think my body is telling from across the room?”
I swallowed, then stepped closer, forcing my voice to remain calm. “You favor your right side when you turn the chair, but your right shoulder isn’t the stronger one. Your left wrist is overworked. Your ribs don’t expand evenly when you breathe. That means you’ve spent years bracing against pain somewhere you don’t talk about.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
Gabriel’s gaze sharpened.
I continued before fear could silence me. “Your chair is custom, but it’s positioned as if whoever fitted it cared more about power than alignment. Your pelvis sits rotated. Your lower back isn’t resting. It’s fighting.”
Sebastian didn’t blink.
The fire cracked loudly behind him.
“And you got all that from standing there?” he asked.
“I got that because you moved three inches when I came in, and your body complained before your mouth did.”
Something almost human passed across his face.
Not warmth.
Not trust.
Recognition.
Then it disappeared.
“You have five minutes,” he said.
I didn’t move.
“No.”
Gabriel shifted behind me.
Sebastian’s expression cooled. “No?”
“If you want a performance, call someone else. If you want an examination, I need time, I need space, and I need rules.”
His eyes narrowed.
People probably didn’t give Sebastian Lombardi rules. They probably gave him silence, obedience, or excuses.
I gave him none of those.
“No one stands behind me while I work,” I said. “No one touches my equipment. No one threatens my son. And if I say stop, we stop.”
Gabriel’s voice was low. “You are not in a position to make demands.”
I turned just enough to look at him. “Then I am not in a position to help.”
For a moment, nobody breathed.
Then Sebastian laughed once.
It wasn’t a kind sound, but it wasn’t cruel either. It sounded rusty, as if he had forgotten how to use it.
“Leave us,” he said.
Gabriel’s eyes did not leave mine. “Sir—”
“She weighs half of what you do and is armed with massage oil.” Sebastian glanced at him. “I think I’ll survive.”
Gabriel hesitated. Then he walked to the door.
Before leaving, he said, “I’ll be outside.”
“Comforting,” I muttered.
The door closed with a soft click.
Sebastian heard me. Of course he did.
“You’re either brave,” he said, “or exhausted enough to act like it.”
“Mostly exhausted.”
“That I believe.”
I opened my bag because my hands needed something to do. Gloves. Sanitizer. A small reflex hammer. Heat packs. Resistance bands. A portable pulse oximeter, because after years with Oliver, I never went anywhere without one. I lined everything on the table with more care than necessary.
Sebastian watched the ritual.
“You said you have a son.”
My fingers paused for half a second. “Yes.”
“How old?”
“Eight.”
“Gabriel said he was ill.”
My throat tightened. “Gabriel said too much.”
“He does that when he wants results.”
“He used my child as leverage.”
Sebastian’s expression changed, but only slightly, like a curtain shifting behind glass. “He should not have mentioned the boy.”
“That is not the apology you think it is.”
“No.” His gaze dropped to his useless legs. “It isn’t.”
That surprised me enough to make me look at him.
In every story Chicago told about Sebastian Lombardi, he was carved from ice and money. A man who collected obedience the way other men collected art. But the man in front of me looked tired in a way power couldn’t disguise.
“Do you know my name?” I asked.
“Maya Bennett,” he said. “Forty-two. Licensed physical therapist until three years ago. Divorce finalized eighteen months ago. Former clinic in Evanston closed after insurance disputes and debt. Currently operating under a private wellness license in Cicero.”
I stared at him.
“That’s supposed to impress me?”
“No. It was supposed to make sure you weren’t a fraud.”
“And?”
His gaze returned to mine. “You’re not.”
The simple certainty in his voice unsettled me more than suspicion would have.
I moved beside him. “Tell me what happened after the explosion.”
His face went blank. “Car bomb. Shrapnel. Spinal injury. Hospital. Surgery. Paralysis. Twenty years of people asking the same questions.”
“Not the newspaper version. The body version.”
He looked irritated. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t care who planted the bomb or what street it happened on. I care what you felt. What you remember. Pain, heat, numbness, pressure. Anything.”
He looked toward the lake. Rain blurred the windows, turning the city lights beyond the estate into trembling gold.
“For three days,” he said slowly, “I remember nothing.”
“And after?”
“Pain.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His eyes cut toward me. “It is the only one I had.”
I waited.
Patients filled silence if you let them. The body did too.
Finally, he exhaled.
“My back felt like it was on fire. Not my legs. My back. Then my hips. Then nothing below the waist except… noise.”
“Noise?”
His fingers flexed against the armrest. “Static. Like a radio between stations. It came and went. The doctors said it was my brain misfiring.”
“Did it ever stop?”
“No.”
My pulse changed.
There it was.
Not proof. Not hope. But a door where everyone else had drawn a wall.
I kept my face still. “Do you feel anything when I touch your legs?”
“No.”
“Pressure?”
“No.”
“Temperature?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
His jaw tightened again. “Sometimes where pain shouldn’t exist.”
“Phantom pain?”
“That was the favorite phrase.”
“And you believed them?”
His voice became flat. “They had degrees. I had a wheelchair.”
I knelt in front of him and lifted the hem of his trouser leg. The fabric was expensive and perfectly tailored, hiding the truth beneath elegance. His calf was smaller than it should have been, but not wasted the way I expected after twenty years of complete disuse.
That made me pause.
“What?” he asked immediately.
“Your muscle tone is unusual.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I expected worse.”
“How flattering.”
I ignored the edge in his voice and pressed my fingers gently along his ankle, then his Achilles tendon, then the arch of his foot. No obvious response. His face remained unreadable.