Chapter 5
The rehabilitation gym was located on the ground floor of the compound, a massive room bathed in bright, natural light from a wall of reinforced glass overlooking the private gardens. It was equipped with state-of-the-art medical gear: parallel bars, a padded therapy table, and heavy resistance machines. Massimo wheeled himself into the room, his strong arms propelling the chair with aggressive, frustrated shoves.
Tessa followed closely behind, her light gray apron removed for the physical exertion of the session. She tied her dark hair tighter into its messy bun.
"Transfer to the mat," Tessa instructed, standing a few feet away with a clipboard.
Massimo wheeled up to the padded therapy table. He locked his brakes with a violent, angry motion. He hated this room. Every mirror, every piece of equipment was a stark reminder of his broken body. He placed his heavily tattooed hands on the armrests, utilizing the immense strength of his upper body to lift his torso, swinging his hips toward the mat.
But his timing was off. A sudden, involuntary muscle spasm wracked his lower legs. The unpredictable movement threw off his center of gravity. His arm buckled slightly, and he missed the center of the mat, his body sliding dangerously toward the edge.
Before he could fall, Tessa moved with lightning speed. She dropped the clipboard, stepping into his space, grabbing his heavy, muscular shoulders and using her own body weight as leverage to push him securely onto the center of the mat.
Massimo shoved her hands away the second he was stable.
"I had it," Massimo snarled, his fair skin flushing with intense embarrassment.
"You lost your center of mass," Tessa corrected clinically, picking up her clipboard. "Your upper body strength is phenomenal, but your proprioception is still recalibrating. Stop rushing the transfers. Anger throws off your mechanics."
Massimo glared at her, breathing heavily. "You don't know a damn thing about my anger."
"I know that it's useless in this room," Tessa fired back, her dark eyes locking onto his. "Your legs don't work, Massimo. Your spine is severely traumatized. But your arms are fine. Your mind is fine. So push past the pity party and start the seated balance exercises."
The sheer disrespect was staggering. Massimo stared at her, his sharp jawline tight. The arrogant mafia boss was entirely unused to being held accountable, let alone being scolded like an undisciplined recruit. Yet, beneath the fury, a strange, unfamiliar spark of respect ignited. She wasn't intimidated by his wealth, his tattoos, or his reputation.
"You are incredibly stubborn," Massimo muttered, shifting his weight on the mat and sitting up straight, forcing his core muscles to engage to keep from falling backward.
May you like
"I'm a professional," Tessa replied, stepping behind him to spot his posture. "And I don't fail my patients. Arms out to the side. Hold for thirty seconds."
For the next hour, they worked in absolute, grueling silence. Tessa pushed him to his physical limits, forcing him to engage the weakened muscles around his injury. Massimo sweat profusely, his black dress shirt clinging to his muscular chest, but he did not quit. Every time he faltered, Tessa was there, her hands firm and clinical, correcting his posture without a single word of pity.
