Chapter 4 - The Trap is SetWe didn't confront Julian immediately.
Operating in the world of the Pascale family meant that blunt force was rarely as effective as a well-laid trap. If we accused Julian outright without undeniable proof, his lawyers and his loyalists inside the board of directors would simply cover their tracks, burn the shell companies, and eliminate anyone who could point a finger.
We needed him to make a move.
Over the next week, I continued Massimo’s physical therapy regimen with brutal, punishing intensity, while secretly swapping out his evening dose of the synthetic paralytic with a harmless saline placebo.
Within four days, the toxic fog clearing from his central nervous system began to work miracles.
The hypertonic spasms in his legs subsided. His muscle tone improved dramatically. On Friday afternoon, while working in the private gym, Massimo gripped the parallel bars, gritted his teeth, and successfully supported his own body weight for six agonizing, triumphant seconds before his knees buckled.
He caught himself against my shoulder, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his temples.
“Damn it,” he muttered, slamming his fist against the metal bar.
“Hey,” I said, catching his eye. “Six seconds is six seconds more than you had last week. The nerve pathways are waking up. Julian is running out of time.”
“Which means he’s going to make a desperate move,” Massimo said, his jaw tight. “He’s scheduled to visit the mansion this Sunday for a ‘family business review.’ He expects to find me heavily medicated, sluggish, and compliant.”
“Then let’s give him what he expects,” I smiled slowly, a daring plan forming in my mind. “Only we’ll be waiting for him.”
Sunday arrived with slate-gray skies and a biting coastal wind.
At 2:00 PM sharp, Julian Pascale walked through the front doors of the mansion, impeccably dressed in a charcoal designer suit, carrying a leather briefcase, wearing an expression of deep, hypocritical concern.
“Massimo, my brother,” Julian greeted smoothly, striding into the study where Massimo sat in his wheelchair, looking pale and deliberately sluggish, his head tilted back against the headrest as if barely maintaining consciousness.
I stood nearby in my white therapist’s coat, holding a clipboard, maintaining my best worried-nurse expression.
“How are we holding up today, cousin?” Julian asked, walking over to pour himself a scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. “The doctors tell me recovery is agonizingly slow. Perhaps it’s time to consider stepping down from the board permanently. Let me carry the weight for a while.”
Massimo opened his eyes slowly, his voice raspy and weak—an incredible piece of acting.
“I’m... tired, Julian,” Massimo murmured. “So tired.”
Julian smiled—a brief, predatory flash of teeth that he quickly masked behind a sympathetic sigh. He walked over to the wheelchair, setting his scotch glass down, and reached into his leather briefcase.
“I brought some new pain management supplements recommended by Dr. Alistair,” Julian said smoothly, pulling out an amber pill bottle identical to the one I had discovered two weeks ago. “Take these tonight, cousin. They’ll help you sleep.”
Massimo stared at the bottle in Julian’s hand.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the weak, sluggish posture vanished.
Massimo sat bolt upright in his chair. The heavy, dead look in his ice-blue eyes transformed into a blazing, terrifying intensity.
Julian froze, the bottle hovering in the air between them.
“You know, Julian,” Massimo said, his voice dropping all pretense of weakness, returning to its lethal, gravelly baritone. “I tried taking those for months. They make it awfully hard to stand up.”
Julian’s face drained of color. He looked from Massimo to the guards standing by the door, then his eyes snapped toward me with sudden, venomous realization.
“You,” Julian hissed, taking a step back. “You ruined everything.”
Before Julian could reach into his jacket for a weapon, Massimo’s guards moved with blinding speed. They slammed Julian against the mahogany desk, wrenching his arms behind his back and stripping a Glock pistol from his shoulder holster in less than three seconds.
Julian thrashed against them, his voice cracking with panic.
May you like
“You can’t do this to me! I’m a Pascale! I run the shipping lines! Without me, the entire syndicate falls apart!”
“You tried to put me in a permanent grave, cousin,” Massimo said, wheeling himself forward until he stopped inches from Julian’s terrified face. “The only place you’re going is federal custody. And if any of your loyalists try to stop it, I’ll feed them to the Atlantic.”
Related Stories
