Chapter 7 - Thirty-Four Days
Thirty-four days became a countdown neither of us admitted existed.
Massimo worked harder.
I became stricter.
Not because the therapy required it.
Because emotion did.
Professional boundaries are easiest when nothing is at stake.
Much harder when the patient knows exactly how many mornings remain.
Day twenty-nine, Massimo walked fifteen feet with a cane.
Day twenty-three, he climbed one step.
Day eighteen, he showered without transfer assistance for the first time.
That should have been purely clinical.
It wasn’t.
I stood outside the bathroom while he managed independently.
When he opened the door wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, damp hair falling over his forehead, he looked absurdly proud.
“I survived.”
“Barely.”
“You missed bathing me.”
“Massimo.”
He grinned.
I walked away before my face betrayed me.
Day fourteen, Dr. Kessler officially revised his prognosis.
Incomplete spinal cord injury with meaningful motor recovery.
Ambulation potential: high.
Massimo read the report twice.
Then handed it to Isabella.
She kissed his forehead.
He pretended to hate it.
Day ten, federal prosecutors announced Renato would face charges connected to sabotage, extortion, conspiracy, and attempted attack on the estate.
Luca accepted a plea agreement for medication tampering, fraud, and obstruction.
He would serve prison time.
Not forever.
Enough.
Massimo visited him once before sentencing.
I did not go.
When he returned, he was quiet.
“What happened?”
“He apologized.”
“Did you forgive him?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“Yes.”
Both could be true.
Massimo sat on the treatment table.
“I told him I loved him.”
I waited.
“And?”
“I told him I never wanted to see him again.”
I nodded.
“That is allowed.”
He looked at me.
“You always say people are allowed to feel impossible things.”
“They are.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Feel impossible things.”
I knew what he meant.
“Yes.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
Then back up.
Nine days.
Eight.
Seven.
The day before my final week, I got an email from the university.
My clinical placement had been restored.
A neurological rehabilitation hospital in Boston wanted me full-time after graduation if I completed the rotation successfully.
Everything I had wanted before Massimo.
I read the email three times.
Then cried.
Again.
Apparently success made me cry more than failure.
Massimo found me in the kitchen.
“What happened?”
I showed him.
His smile was immediate.
Real.
“You got it.”
“Yes.”
He pulled me into a hug.
Then froze.
So did I.
His arms loosened immediately.
“Sorry.”
I should have stepped back.
Instead, I stayed.
Just one second too long.
Then two.
His heartbeat was fast.
Mine worse.
I stepped away.
“Six days.”
He exhaled.
“You are torturing me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I have survived car sabotage, drugging, and federal investigations.”
“So six days should be easy.”
“Cruel.”
On my last official day, I did not know what to wear.
That was ridiculous.
I wore scrubs.
Professional to the end.
Massimo completed his final assessment.
Cane.
Stairs with railing.
Independent transfers.
Dressing.
Bathing.
Medication management.
Walking endurance limited but improving.
Wheelchair only for long community distances.
I closed the folder.
“You’re discharged from my care.”
The words hurt.
Massimo stared at me.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
He looked toward Nico.
“Everyone out.”
I pointed at him.
“No Mafia theatrics.”
Nico left anyway.
We stood alone in the gym.
Massimo leaned on his cane.
“I owe you my legs.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You do not get to reject every sincere statement.”
“I can reject inaccurate ones.”
He waited.
“You did the work.”
“You found the medication.”
“I found a pill.”
“You made me stand.”
“You stood.”
“You gave me a reason to.”
That one landed.
I swallowed.
“Massimo.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the clock.
“My employment relationship with you ended at noon?”
“Yes.”
He checked his watch.
12:04.
Then looked at me.
“Dinner.”
I almost laughed.
“That is your grand romantic move?”
“Yes.”
“Four minutes after discharge?”
“I waited.”
“Barely.”
“Thirty-four days.”
I smiled.
He had counted too.
“Dinner where?”
“Somewhere with no guards at the table.”
“That narrows nothing.”
“No weapons.”
“Better.”
“No family.”
“Excellent.”
“No contracts.”
“Perfect.”
He looked almost nervous.
Massimo Pascale.
Man who once made armed men go silent by entering a room.
Nervous.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Dinner happened at a small Italian restaurant in the North End.
Public.
Ordinary.
He used a cane.
No private room.
No one cleared the restaurant.
A couple at the next table argued about parking.
A child dropped spaghetti.
Massimo looked around.
“This is loud.”
“This is normal.”
“I’m not sure I like normal.”
“You need exposure therapy.”
He smiled.
We talked for three hours.
Not about gait.
Not about medication.
Not about his criminal organization.
About movies.
My father.
His mother.
His childhood.
My fear of graduating and discovering I had spent eight years chasing a career I might fail at.
His fear of walking again and still not knowing who he was without power.
When he walked me to my apartment door, he stopped.
No touch.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question made my chest tighten.
“Yes.”
He kissed me slowly.
No urgency.
No gratitude.
No caregiver and patient.
Two adults.
When he pulled back, he looked almost stunned.
“What?”
“I’ve wanted to do that since you called me rude.”
“That is deeply unhealthy.”
“Probably.”
I laughed.
Then his phone rang.
His expression changed when he saw the caller.
Nico.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
Massimo ended the call.
“Someone shot at my mother’s car.”
My stomach dropped.
The criminal world he was trying to leave had just reminded us it was not finished with him.
Five days before my contract ended, I packed the first box in my room.
Massimo saw it through the open door.
He stopped in the hallway.
“You’re actually leaving.”
“That is generally what packing means.”
“I thought maybe you were reorganizing.”
“I own four shirts.”
“You own more than four shirts.”
“Focus.”
He leaned against the doorframe with his cane.
For once, he did not joke.
“This house will feel different.”
I folded a sweater.
“That’s allowed.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Also allowed.”
He nodded.
Then said, “I keep wanting to ask you to stay.”
My hands stopped.
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you already told me what happens after three months is your choice.”
I looked at him.
That answer landed deeper than any grand speech could have.
“Good.”
He smiled sadly.
“I hate good behavior.”
“You’re getting better at it.”
He tapped his cane against the floor.
“Apparently rehabilitation spreads.”
May you like
I laughed.
Then went back to packing, grateful that for the first time since I entered the Pascale estate, leaving did not require escape.
