Chapter 3 - The West Wing Cage
The west wing of the Lombardi estate was larger than the entire apartment building I had been evicted from three days ago. By three o'clock Friday morning, Oliver was tucked into a massive king-sized bed surrounded by Egyptian cotton sheets, an advanced industrial-grade air purification system humming silently in the corner to ensure his fragile lungs remained clear of the lakefront dampness.
My mother, Martha, sat in a velvet armchair by the window, her face a mask of profound, silent terror as she watched two armed guards patrol the manicured lawns outside.
"Clara, what have you gotten us into?" she whispered, her hands shaking as she clutched a cup of chamomile tea a silent housemaid had delivered an hour ago. "These men... they aren't construction workers, honey. I saw the tattoos on the driver's neck. Those are the Maroni syndicate’s markers. We’re in the middle of a graveyard."
"Oliver is breathing, Mom," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing a stray lock of brown hair from my son’s forehead. His breathing was deep, steady, and free of the terrifying wheeze that usually kept me awake until dawn. "The air system in this room costs more than my annual clinic revenue. Sebastian Lombardi is paying for his treatment, and in return, I’m treating his legs. It’s a business transaction."
"A transaction with the devil always ends with a funeral, Clara," she warned.
Before I could answer, a soft, rhythmic knock sounded at the heavy oak door. Marco Vance stood in the hallway, holding a thick, leather-bound folder and a digital tablet.
"Miss Thomas," Marco said, his voice clipped and professional. "Mr. Lombardi is waiting for his first full therapeutic evaluation in the private gymnasium. Follow me."
I stepped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind me. As we walked through the endless maze of arched hallways, oil paintings, and security checkpoints, I kept my eyes fixed on the back of Marco’s pristine gray suit.
"You don't want me here, do you, Marco?" I asked.
He didn't slow his pace. "My job is to keep Sebastian alive and the empire stable, Miss Thomas. For twenty years, the stability of the Lombardi family has depended on Sebastian being an immovable object. A man in a chair is predictable. He doesn't go into the clubs; he doesn't meet the street captains in dark alleys; he rules from a throne through calculations. If you give him hope, you make him reckless. And a reckless Lombardi means bodies in the Chicago River."
"I’m a physical therapist, not a political strategist," I said as we arrived at a massive, glass-walled rehabilitation suite that overlooked the dark waters of Lake Michigan.
Sebastian was already there. He had stripped down to a gray athletic tank top and shorts, revealing a torso that was incredibly muscled from twenty years of propelling himself forward with his arms alone. But his legs were thin, pale, and mapped with the violent, jagged white lines of old surgical scars from the 2006 explosion.
He was pulling himself up on a set of parallel bars using his upper body strength, his useless legs dragging behind him like dead weight against the polished hardwood floor.
"Let’s get one thing straight, Clara," Sebastian said, sweat glistening on his forehead as he lowered himself back into his wheelchair with a grunt of exertion. "I don't expect a miracle. I don't expect to run a marathon. But next week, the heads of the four major families of the midwest are arriving at this estate for the tri-annual commission meeting. They think I'm getting old. They think the chair makes me soft. I want to stand up, Clara. Just for ten seconds. I want to look them in the eye when I tell them the price of the distribution route has doubled."
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I walked over to the treatment table, unfolding my set of specialized myofascial tools. "Ten seconds of standing requires deep structural stabilization, Mr. Lombardi. If we force your nervous system to fire before the tissue is cleared, you could cause a complete autonomic rupture. It will hurt. More than anything you've felt since the bomb."
Sebastian looked at me, a dark, dangerous smile cutting across his sharp jawline. "Clara, I’ve spent twenty years living in a house where I couldn't feel half of my own body. Pain isn't a threat to me. It's proof that I'm still alive. Start the session."
