Chapter 2 - The First Touch
The private wing of the Pascale estate smelled of fresh eucalyptus, polished mahogany, and an underlying, sharp hint of antiseptic. It was a massive, sprawling fortress hidden behind twenty-foot stone walls in the rolling hills outside Boston, but inside Massimo’s bedroom, it felt like a gilded cage.
At six o'clock the next morning, I pushed open the heavy oak doors carrying my medical bag, a binder of neuro-stimulation protocols, and a quiet determination that was entirely manufactured. My hands were shaking, but I forced my posture to stay straight.
Massimo was already awake. He sat at the edge of his king-sized bed in grey sweatpants, his bare, broad chest exposed, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the foggy estate grounds. The lighting caught the harsh angles of his face and the thick, angry purple surgical scar running down the length of his spine.
"You're late," he said without turning around. His voice was a low, velvet gravel.
"My watch says 6:00 AM sharp, Mr. Pascale," I replied, setting my bag on the marble table. "And before we begin physical therapy, we have to handle your morning transfer, hygiene, and reflex assessment."
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that could make lesser men back out of the room. "I don't need a babysitter to wash me, Fitzgerald."
"I'm not a babysitter. I'm a doctoral candidate in neurological physical therapy," I said, walking toward him without hesitation. "And until your motor pathways re-establish connection, you can't lift your legs into the hydrotherapy bath on your own. You can either let me do my job, or you can rot in that bed and prove everyone who thinks you'll never walk again right."
Massimo’s jaw tightened so hard I heard his teeth grind. A dark, dangerous flicker crossed his face, but beneath the rage, I caught something else: a deep, agonizing frustration of a man stripped of his autonomy.
"Fine," he growled. "Touch me, and make it quick."
I stepped into his personal space, bringing the clean, clinical scent of my lavender soap into his radius. As a physical therapist, I had touched hundreds of bodies, but touching Massimo felt like placing my hands on a dormant volcano.
I reached around his back, placing one hand behind his shoulder blades and the other beneath his thighs to assist his pivot into the specialized transfer chair. His skin was warm, his back covered in dense, corded muscle. When my chest brushed against his shoulder, he froze.
His hand instinctively clamped around my waist—not to harm me, but to steady himself. The grip was absurdly strong, his fingers pressing into the fabric of my scrubs.
"You're shaking, doc," he murmured, his breath hot against my collarbone.
"It's cold in here," I lied smoothly, meeting his gaze from inches away. "Now lean into me. On three. One... two... three."
With a grunt of effort, he pivoted. The strain was immense, but I bore his weight, guiding him smoothly into the chair. For a second, our faces were so close I could count the dark eyelashes framing his piercing eyes and taste the faint mint on his breath.
When he was settled, he didn't let go of my waist immediately. His dark eyes searched my face, looking for fear, disgust, or pity. He found none of them.
"Your previous nurses," I said softly, adjusting his footplates, "they treated you like fragile glass."
"They looked at me like I was a broken corpse," Massimo rasped, his hand finally slipping away from my waist, leaving a lingering warmth on my skin.
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"Well, you're not a corpse," I said, looking up into his eyes. "You're just lazy. And tomorrow, we start double sessions."
For the second time in two days, the cold lord of Boston’s underworld stared at me in disbelief before a slow, dangerous smirk stretched across his lips.
