Chapter 3 - The Enemy Inside the Walls
The first thing I learned about Massimo Pascale was that he hated being helped.
The second thing I learned was that he hated admitting he hated being helped.
And the third thing I learned was that the man everyone feared was fighting a battle nobody could see.
At exactly seven o’clock the next morning, I walked into the rehabilitation room prepared for resistance.
I was not disappointed.
Massimo was already there.
Of course he was.
A man like him probably woke up before sunrise just to prove that time itself answered to him.
The private rehabilitation room had been transformed into something that looked more like a medical facility than part of a mansion.
There were resistance bands.
Mobility equipment.
Therapy tools.
A standing frame near the window.
Everything needed for recovery.
Everything except one thing.
A patient willing to cooperate.
Massimo sat in his wheelchair, dressed in black again.
I was beginning to think he owned nothing that wasn’t black.
“You’re late.”
I checked my watch.
“Actually, I’m two minutes early.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I prefer five minutes early.”
I placed my notebook down.
“Then next time, I’ll arrive at 6:55.”
“Good.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And somehow, I understood immediately.
This was not a conversation.
This was a battle.
“Are you always this pleasant in the morning?”
“No.”
“Interesting. Because I was about to say you seem like someone who practices being unpleasant.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
Almost a reaction.
Almost.
“You talk too much.”
“And you complain too much.”
The silence that followed would have terrified most people.
But I had worked with patients recovering from traumatic injuries.
I had sat beside people who woke up unable to move half their body.
I had watched families break down in hospital hallways.
I had learned something important.
Pain makes people angry.
And sometimes anger is just fear wearing armor.
“Let’s start.”
Massimo looked at the equipment.
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
“I’m not doing that today.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I crossed my arms.
“That’s not a medical reason.”
His eyes sharpened.
“It’s my decision.”
I nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because arguing won’t make you trust me.”
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
Only for a second.
Then the cold expression returned.
“I don’t need to trust you.”
“Everyone needs someone they can trust.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
His face hardened.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
I looked at him carefully.
“No.”
I paused.
“But I know what it looks like when someone is scared.”
The room went silent.
The guards near the door shifted uncomfortably.
Nobody spoke to Massimo that way.
Nobody challenged him.
But I wasn’t challenging him.
I was treating him.
And there was a difference.
He looked away.
“Begin.”
That single word was not an apology.
It was not acceptance.
But it was progress.
And for Massimo Pascale, progress was everything.
---
The first week was brutal.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Massimo pushed every boundary.
He questioned every instruction.
He challenged every exercise.
He refused help with simple tasks because he considered needing assistance a personal failure.
“Your transfer technique is wrong.”
I looked at him.
“I have a doctorate in neurological physical therapy.”
“And?”
“And my technique is not wrong.”
“You’re arguing with me.”
“Yes.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Most people are probably afraid of you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And you aren’t?”
I adjusted his wheelchair.
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your recovery because your pride is louder than your common sense.”
That actually made him stop.
For a moment, he looked at me differently.
Not as an employee.
Not as someone hired to serve him.
As someone who saw him.
And I realized something.
Massimo Pascale had spent his entire life surrounded by people who either feared him or wanted something from him.
Nobody simply told him the truth.
That was probably why he hated it so much.
Because truth was the one thing he couldn’t control.
---
By the end of the second week, I noticed changes.
Small ones.
But they mattered.
He started completing exercises without complaining.
Sometimes.
He stopped dismissing every suggestion.
Mostly.
And once, when I arrived ten minutes late because of traffic, he didn’t criticize me.
He only said:
“I thought you quit.”
I froze.
The words were simple.
But the meaning behind them wasn’t.
“You thought I quit?”
He looked away.
“No.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“Massimo.”
His jaw tightened.
Finally, he admitted quietly:
“Everyone does.”
That was the first honest thing he had ever said to me.
Not everyone leaves.
Everyone does.
A sentence created from years of disappointment.
I sat across from him.
“Who left?”
He immediately closed himself off.
“That’s irrelevant.”
“It doesn’t sound irrelevant.”
“It’s the past.”
“The past affects the present.”
“You sound like a therapist.”
“I am a therapist.”
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
But then his expression changed.
A shadow crossed his face.
“My father.”
The words surprised me.
I said nothing.
Because sometimes silence is the only respectful response.
“My father taught me one thing.”
“What?”
“That weakness is something people exploit.”
I listened.
“He built the Pascale organization from nothing. He survived because he trusted nobody.”
“And you believed him?”
“I watched him die because he trusted the wrong person.”
The room became colder.
I didn’t know the details.
But I understood.
Trauma.
Loss.
Betrayal.
The things that shaped people into someone they barely recognized.
“Is that why you became like this?”
His eyes lifted.
“Like what?”
“Someone who believes needing people makes you weak.”
He looked at me.
For once, he had no answer.
---
Three weeks after I arrived, something happened that changed everything.
It was late afternoon.
We were finishing a difficult therapy session.
Massimo had managed to stand with support for eleven seconds.
Eleven seconds.
To anyone else, it might have seemed insignificant.
But I knew better.
Eleven seconds meant his nervous system was responding.
Eleven seconds meant his body was fighting.
Eleven seconds meant hope.
“You did it,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I stood.”
“Yes.”
“For eleven seconds.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not impressive.”
I smiled.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re celebrating too much.”
“Because I know what eleven seconds means.”
He looked down.
For a moment, the powerful man disappeared.
And I saw only someone who missed being able to walk.
Someone who missed being independent.
Someone who missed himself.
“I used to run five miles every morning.”
His voice was quiet.
“I owned companies. I traveled. I made decisions that affected hundreds of people.”
He looked at his legs.
“Now I need someone to help me get dressed.”
I softened.
“Massimo.”
“No.”
His voice became harder.
“I became someone I don’t recognize.”
I moved closer.
“That doesn’t mean you’re less of a person.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Maybe not.”
I paused.
“But I understand this.”
He looked at me.
“You’re still here.”
The words seemed to surprise him.
“You’re still fighting.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then quietly:
“Why do you care?”
The question caught me off guard.
Because the answer was simple.
But maybe not easy.
“Because you’re my patient.”
“That’s all?”
I hesitated.
And I hated that I hesitated.
Because something about him was changing.
And something inside me was changing too.
“I care because nobody should have to go through this alone.”
Massimo looked at me.
Really looked at me.
And for the first time since I arrived at the Pascale estate…
I saw the man behind the monster.
Not the mafia boss.
Not the feared name.
Not the dangerous reputation.
Just Massimo.
A man who had lost everything familiar.
A man who was terrified that he would never get it back.
And somehow, without realizing it…
I had become the one person he trusted enough to admit it.
But neither of us knew that while we were fighting to rebuild his life…
Someone else was preparing to destroy it.
Someone who knew Massimo’s greatest weakness.
May you like
And now…
They knew mine too.
