Chapter 6 - THE SECRET IN THE SPINE
By dawn, the raid was over. Sam and the loyal Gallagher soldiers had secured the perimeter, eliminating the Moretti strike team and locking down the city.
The mansion was quiet again, though the smell of smoke still lingered in the air.
In the private medical bay, I was finishing stitching up Desmond's shoulder wound. The room was sterile and white, illuminated by bright fluorescent lights.
"Hold still," I murmured, pulling the thread tight.
"You're remarkably calm for someone who shot a man six hours ago," Desmond noted, staring up at the ceiling.
"I'm numb," I admitted honestly. "And if you keep moving, this scar is going to look terrible."
He chuckled softly, then winced as I tied off the final knot.
Once I finished dressing the wound, I pulled out the blood work panel I had run on him three days ago—the one I had sent to a private lab outside the city without telling his personal physician, Dr. Harrison.
I set the papers on his lap.
Desmond looked down at the charts. "What is this?"
"That's the real reason you haven't been able to walk," I said, my voice serious. "Your nerve damage from the shooting was real, Desmond, but it was healing. You should have been walking months ago."
Desmond frowned, his eyes scanning the medical jargon. "Then why couldn't I move my legs?"
"Because someone was poisoning you," I revealed softly. "Small, daily doses of a neurotoxin called Curare-D. It suppresses nerve signal transmission to the lower limbs without showing up on standard blood panels. It mimics permanent paralysis."
Desmond's face went completely deathly quiet. "Who?"
"Your private physician, Dr. Harrison," I replied. "He was working for Matteo all along. Every time he gave you those 'vitamin injections' for your physical therapy, he was keeping you paralyzed."
Desmond's fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The betrayal hit him deeper than any bullet ever could. The man he had trusted with his life had been keeping him trapped in his own body.
"I stopped your injections two weeks ago," I continued, stepping closer to him. "The toxin is almost entirely out of your system now."
Desmond looked up at me, shock and hope warring in his icy blue eyes. "Clara..."
"Stand up," I commanded softly.
"What?"
"Stand up, Desmond," I repeated, extending my hands toward him. "The toxin is gone. The muscle tone is back. Stop hiding behind the chair."
Desmond looked down at his feet. He took a deep, shaky breath—a man about to step off a cliff into the unknown.
Slowly, agonizingly, he placed his large hands on the armrests of his chair. He pushed. His leg muscles tightened, veins bulging along his neck as he poured every ounce of his legendary willpower into his body.
His knees trembled. His body shook.
And then... he stood.
He staggered forward, his heavy frame leaning into me. I caught him around the waist, holding his weight as his arms wrapped around my shoulders.
He was towering over me—six feet two inches of pure muscle and unstoppable pride.
Desmond looked down at his own feet planted firmly on the floor, then at me. Tears—real, silent tears—glittered in his eyes.
May you like
"I'm standing," he whispered, his voice trembling.
"You're standing," I smiled, wrapping my arms tighter around his waist. "Now let me teach you how to walk again."
