Chapter 8 - The Last Enemy
Isabella was unharmed.
The driver had taken a bullet through the shoulder but survived.
The attack happened three blocks from church.
Not random.
Not robbery.
A warning.
Massimo returned to the estate that night.
I did not go with him.
That mattered.
Once, I would have felt obligated.
Now I was no longer his clinician, no longer his employee, and if we were going to become something real, I needed to choose where I stood.
I chose to wait at the hospital with Isabella.
She held my hand.
“You love him.”
I stared.
“That is aggressive.”
“I am Italian.”
“You’re from Worcester.”
“Still.”
I laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“Do not stay because he needs you.”
“I know.”
“Men like my son can make need look like love.”
That was the wisest warning anyone had given me.
“I won’t.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“Good.”
The investigation found the shooter within two days.
Not Renato.
Not Luca.
A former Pascale captain named Sal DeMarco.
He had lost control of two gambling operations after Massimo dismantled them.
He wanted Massimo to reverse course.
The attack on Isabella was leverage.
Old world logic.
Massimo’s first response was exactly what I feared.
He disappeared for six hours.
Would not answer me.
Would not answer Camila.
When he returned, there was blood on his cuff.
Not his.
I stood in the estate entry hall.
“What did you do?”
He looked exhausted.
“Nothing irreversible.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I confronted Sal.”
“Did you hurt him?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
Massimo continued.
“He pulled a gun. Nico disarmed him.”
“And the blood?”
“His nose.”
I closed my eyes.
“Massimo.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“That is a low bar.”
“I know.”
“Did you turn him over to police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he has evidence against three other captains.”
I stared.
“So you made a deal.”
“Yes.”
“Like the old days.”
His face hardened.
“No.”
“How is it different?”
“I’m giving the evidence to federal investigators tomorrow.”
I stopped.
He looked at me.
“I needed to know where the next threat was coming from.”
“That does not require punching someone.”
“I agree.”
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
I almost lost the argument because he had changed.
Not perfectly.
Enough to make the next choice possible.
The evidence Sal surrendered broke the remaining criminal coalition.
Two captains fled.
One was arrested.
Another negotiated.
The Pascale organization ceased to function as a centralized crime family.
Legitimate companies remained.
Construction.
Logistics.
Restaurants.
Commercial real estate.
Massimo sold or closed the rest.
Men called him weak.
Traitor.
Coward.
He walked with his cane into a federal hearing and testified about operations his father had built.
That act cost him more emotionally than money ever could.
I sat in the back.
Not beside him.
Not as proof of redemption.
Just present.
Afterward, reporters shouted questions.
“Mr. Pascale, are you still the head of the Pascale family?”
Massimo stopped.
He looked directly at the cameras.
“I’m Isabella Pascale’s son.”
More questions.
“And Luca’s brother.”
The crowd quieted.
“And nothing about my family requires organized crime.”
Then he kept walking.
That line changed public perception.
Some praised him.
Some called it self-preservation.
Both were partly true.
People change for mixed reasons.
What mattered was what he kept doing when nobody applauded.
Months passed.
I returned to school.
Clinical rotations nearly killed me.
Not literally.
Emotionally.
Twelve-hour days.
Exams.
Case presentations.
Massimo never paid my bills again.
He offered once.
I said no.
He never offered again.
He brought food.
That was acceptable.
Sometimes he picked me up after late rotations.
No armored SUV.
A boring gray sedan he complained about constantly.
He continued rehabilitation with another therapist.
Important boundary.
I refused to become his girlfriend and therapist at once.
His new therapist, Jason, was six foot three and merciless.
Massimo hated him.
I loved Jason immediately.
“You replaced me with a man who makes you do stairs.”
“He is a monster.”
“Good.”
By spring, Massimo could walk half a mile with a cane.
He still used the chair on painful days.
He stopped apologizing for that.
That was another kind of recovery.
Luca was sentenced to three years.
Massimo attended.
Isabella cried.
Luca looked at his brother before deputies took him away.
Massimo nodded once.
Not forgiveness.
Not rejection.
Recognition.
We learned to live with unfinished things.
Then graduation came.
My mother’s old photo sat in my purse.
My father’s watch on my wrist.
Camila screamed louder than anyone.
Massimo stood when my name was called.
Without his cane.
Just for the few seconds it took me to cross the stage.
I saw him.
Nearly tripped.
The irony would have ruined my career.
After the ceremony, he handed me a small box.
I narrowed my eyes.
“No expensive gifts.”
“Open it.”
Inside was a pen.
Dark blue.
Engraved:
DR. ELENA MARQUEZ
I cried.
Again.
Massimo smiled.
“You cry constantly.”
“Shut up.”
He kissed my forehead.
Then said, “I have one more thing.”
“No.”
“Not jewelry.”
“What?”
“A lease.”
I stared.
“For what?”
“A building.”
My expression hardened.
He raised both hands.
“Not for you.”
“Explain quickly.”
“A rehabilitation clinic space near Roxbury. A nonprofit board is forming. They need a clinical director.”
My heart started pounding.
“You bought me a clinic.”
“No.”
“Massimo.”
“I donated a building to an independent foundation.”
“That is suspiciously adjacent.”
“You would apply like anyone else.”
“Would I get special treatment?”
“No.”
“Would you control hiring?”
“No.”
“Would your name be on it?”
“No.”
“Then whose?”
He smiled.
“Your father’s, if you want.”
That silenced me.
The Rafael Marquez Mobility Center.
A place for uninsured stroke and spinal cord injury patients.
I looked at Massimo.
“This is too much.”
“Maybe.”
“You planned this.”
“For months.”
“Without telling me.”
His smile disappeared.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
That mattered.
“I should have asked whether you wanted your father’s name attached.”
I looked at the papers.
He was learning.
Still.
“I do.”
His eyes lifted.
“But I want independent governance.”
“Already written.”
“And no Pascale family control.”
“None.”
“And I apply.”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
“Then maybe.”
Massimo exhaled.
“Maybe is terrible.”
“Rehabilitation teaches patience.”
“I hate rehabilitation.”
“No, you don’t.”
He looked at me.
“No.”
May you like
Then smiled.
“I really don’t.”
