Chapter 2 - The Pill That Shouldn’t Have Been There
The pill turned out to be tizanidine.
A muscle relaxant.
Not automatically dangerous.
Not suspicious by itself.
Except Massimo already had another muscle relaxant on his medication list.
Taken together at the doses printed in his chart, the combination could leave him exhausted, weak, dizzy, and unable to participate effectively in rehabilitation.
Exactly the way he had been describing his mornings.
I called the dispensing pharmacy from a private room.
They had no record of tizanidine.
That was when my concern became something more serious.
Someone had switched his pills.
I did not tell Massimo immediately.
I told Camila.
She arrived at the estate that afternoon carrying two legal pads and the expression she wore when she expected someone to lie.
“You wanted me to identify a medication,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Now I need you to tell me whether reporting suspected medication tampering gets me murdered.”
Camila stared.
“Please be joking.”
“I’m never funny before lunch.”
It was after three.
She closed the door.
I showed her photographs of the mislabeled bottles.
She became very still.
“Who knows?”
“Massimo. His guard, Nico. And his brother saw the pill.”
“Which brother?”
“Luca.”
Camila swore under her breath.
“What?”
“Luca Pascale is acting head of several family businesses while Massimo recovers.”
My stomach tightened.
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“Would Massimo getting better threaten him?”
“Yes.”
She answered too quickly.
I looked at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t think you were walking into a succession dispute.”
“I’m not.”
“Elena, you are literally living in a Mafia estate because their boss can’t walk.”
Fair.
That evening, I started Massimo’s first formal therapy session in the mansion gym.
The room looked like a professional athletic facility.
Parallel bars.
Cable machines.
Hydrotherapy pool.
Treatment table.
Mirrors.
More equipment than the university clinic had.
Massimo hated all of it.
“Stand.”
“No.”
I tightened the gait belt around his waist.
“Stand.”
“I said no.”
“And I heard you.”
He looked down at the belt.
“I could fire you.”
“Yes.”
“I could replace you in an hour.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“No?”
“You canceled the interviews.”
That annoyed him because it was true.
I positioned his feet.
“Hands on the bars.”
Massimo looked at me.
“If I fall—”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m good.”
That made him smile.
Barely.
He pushed through his arms.
Nothing happened.
His shoulders shook with effort.
I supported his knees.
“Again.”
“I hate you.”
“Excellent. Use it.”
He tried again.
His hips lifted half an inch from the chair.
Then dropped.
Massimo froze.
I did too.
He stared at me.
“That happened.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
That was the first moment he stopped fighting therapy.
We worked for forty minutes.
By the end, sweat soaked his shirt and his hands trembled.
I checked his blood pressure.
Low.
Too low.
“Did you take your morning medication?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave it to you?”
His expression hardened.
“My mother.”
I found Mrs. Pascale in the breakfast room.
Isabella Pascale was sixty-seven, elegant, silver-haired, and exhausted.
She loved her son in the fierce way people love someone they nearly lost.
When I asked about the medication, her hand started shaking.
“I follow the organizer.”
“Who fills it?”
“The nurse used to.”
“After she left?”
“Luca arranged someone from the pharmacy.”
“What someone?”
“I don’t know.”
That was not good enough.
I removed the organizer from circulation.
Massimo’s physician was informed.
Dr. Kessler came to the house that evening.
He was defensive.
“I did not prescribe tizanidine.”
“I know.”
“Then this is a security issue.”
“It is also a medical issue.”
His mouth tightened.
“You’re a doctoral student.”
“Yes.”
“I’m the attending physician.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me how to manage my patient?”
“I’m telling you someone put an unprescribed medication into his organizer.”
Massimo watched from the wheelchair.
His eyes moved between us like he was enjoying a tennis match.
Dr. Kessler sighed.
“We’ll run toxicology.”
“Good.”
“And you stop medications not on my chart.”
“Already done.”
His expression sharpened.
Massimo laughed.
After Kessler left, he said, “You enjoy irritating powerful men.”
“I enjoy accurate medication lists.”
“Same effect.”
That night, I helped him shower.
I had done personal care before.
Stroke patients.
Spinal injuries.
Postoperative patients.
Professional.
Routine.
Except Massimo Pascale had the body of a man who spent years boxing and lifting weights before a car crushed his spine.
His upper body remained powerful.
Tattooed shoulders.
Chest.
Arms.
The image in the bathroom mirror looked exactly like the kind of situation no university ethics seminar had prepared me to discuss.
He noticed my expression.
“You’re very quiet.”
“I’m working.”
“You talk constantly during therapy.”
“You complain constantly during therapy.”
“True.”
I positioned the shower chair.
“Transfer on three.”
“I can do it.”
“You can assist.”
“I can do it.”
He tried.
His left foot slipped.
I caught his torso against mine.
For one second, his face was inches from mine.
Wet hair.
Warm skin.
Breath.
Then I shifted him safely onto the chair.
“Do not do that again.”
His eyes held mine.
“The transfer?”
“The arrogance.”
“Impossible.”
I turned on the handheld shower.
He smiled.
Professional.
I repeated the word in my head.
Professional.
Then Massimo looked at his legs.
The humor disappeared.
“Eight months ago, I ran six miles every morning.”
I lowered the water pressure.
“You may run again.”
“May.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that word.”
“I know.”
“What word do you prefer?”
“Work.”
He looked at me.
I continued.
“You can’t control the outcome. You can control the work.”
For the first time, Massimo looked vulnerable.
Not weak.
Vulnerable.
That was different.
Later, while helping him dress, I noticed a scar near his right hip.
Not surgical.
A puncture scar.
“What happened here?”
“After the crash.”
“From what?”
“Metal.”
“Documented?”
He shrugged.
I checked his old surgical notes.
No mention.
Then I found something stranger.
The first ambulance report listed Massimo as conscious at the crash scene.
The hospital intake said he arrived unconscious.
There was a forty-two-minute gap between those records.
“What happened during transport?” I asked.
Massimo’s face darkened.
“I don’t remember.”
“Nothing?”
“Rain. Blood. Someone opening the ambulance door.”
“Paramedic?”
“I thought so.”
“Thought?”
He looked at me.
“I remember Luca’s voice.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your brother?”
“He arrived at the crash before the ambulance left.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
I closed the file.
The pill in the organizer was no longer the only thing that bothered me.
That night, I slept with my bedroom door locked.
At 2:11 a.m., someone tried the handle.
Once.
Then again.
I sat up, heart hammering.
The hallway went silent.
A shadow passed beneath the door.
I called security.
Nico arrived two minutes later.
No one found.
No camera footage.
The hall camera had gone offline at exactly 2:08.
The next morning, Massimo saw my face.
“What happened?”
I told him.
He did not laugh.
He did not threaten anyone.
He simply looked at Nico and said, “From now on, she is never alone in this house after midnight.”
I folded my arms.
“Absolutely not.”
Massimo turned toward me.
“You were targeted.”
“I was maybe targeted.”
“Someone touched your door.”
“Which does not make me your prisoner.”
His jaw tightened.
I expected a fight.
Instead, he took a breath.
“What would make you feel safer?”
The question surprised me.
“A working camera. An independent lock. And no guards following me to the bathroom.”
“Done.”
He looked at Nico.
“Arrange it.”
Then Massimo turned back to me.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Start documenting everyone who touches your medication.”
His expression changed.
“You think this is connected.”
“I think someone benefits from you staying weak.”
May you like
Massimo stared at his useless legs.
Then whispered, “So do I.”
