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I accepted $50,000 to spend three months bathing, dressing, and teaching a wheelchair-bound Mafia boss to walk after three nurses fled his mansion in fear. Everyone warned me Massimo Pascale might destroy my career if I angered him, but when I made Boston’s most feared man laugh, I discovered something far more dangerous: someone inside his own house was secretly making sure he never stood again. / Chapter 8 / 10

Chapter 8 - The Return to the CoastThe heavy steel doors of the federal holding facility swung open on Thursday afternoon, releasing Massimo into the crisp, biting Boston air.

He walked down the concrete steps without his cane, his stride steady, powerful, and completely uninhibited. He looked like a man emerging from the underworld—dangerous, unbreakable, and entirely free.

I waited for him at the curb beside my sedan, my arms crossed against the freezing wind.

Massimo stopped two feet in front of me. The ice in his blue eyes had completely melted away, replaced by an intense, overwhelming warmth that made my heart race faster than any medical emergency ever could.

“You walked into a federal courtroom and dismantled a DOJ indictment using cybersecurity forensics,” Massimo said, a slow, disbelieving smile breaking across his hard face. “Is there anything you can't do, Dr. Fitzgerald?”

“I can’t get you to take your blood pressure medication on time without yelling at you,” I shot back, though my voice was trembling.

Massimo stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off his broad chest.

“My legal team confirmed that Julian’s assets have been fully seized by the federal government,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly baritone that always vibrated through my bones. “The Pascale family empire is clean. And my physical therapy is officially completed.”

“Is it?” I whispered, my breath pluming in the cold air between us. “Because your gait is still slightly compromised on the left side.”

Massimo reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently cupping my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to stay in Boston to supervise my recovery,” he said softly. “Indefinitely.”

I leaned into his palm, closing my eyes for a fraction of a second to savor the solid, undeniable reality of him standing right here, fully healed, fully alive.

“My doctoral thesis defense is next month,” I reminded him, opening my eyes to meet his gaze.

“I cleared your tuition balance with the university yesterday,” Massimo said smoothly. “As an anonymous philanthropic donation to the neurological physical therapy department.”

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