Chapter 6 - The Visitor in the Study
The blood drained from Maxwell’s face.
In a fraction of a second, the vulnerable man vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating mafia boss. He didn't panic. He didn't curse. With practiced, lightning-fast precision, he grabbed the heavy rubber wheels of his therapeutic chair, hoisted his upper body effortlessly, and dropped back into the seat, pulling a heavy wool blanket over his legs to hide the sweat-soaked training pants.
"Get in the bathroom," Maxwell whispered fiercely to Martha, his eyes darting toward the adjoining washroom. "Lock the door. Do not make a sound."
Martha didn't argue. She grabbed her medical bag, slipped through the bathroom door, and pulled it shut until it clicked softly, leaving her in the dark, humid space where this entire madness had started.
Through the thick oak door of the study, she heard the heavy main doors open.
"Vince," Maxwell’s voice rang out, cold, smooth, and utterly devoid of weakness. "It’s two in the morning. My shipping schedules can wait until dawn."
"Can they, Max?" a heavy, gravelly voice replied. Vince Rossi stepped into the study, his footsteps heavy and aggressive against the floorboards. He smelled of expensive cologne, bourbon, and cheap cigars. "Word on the docks is that the federal marshals are sniffing around Terminal 4 again. And frankly, cousin, people are starting to wonder if a man who hasn't left the third floor in over a year can still protect our interests."
Martha pressed her ear against the bathroom door, holding her breath.
"My mind is as sharp as it ever was, Vince," Maxwell replied smoothly. "And my grip on this family hasn't slipped an inch."
"Is that right?" Vince laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. He walked closer—Martha could hear the distinct sound of his leather shoes stopping near the mahogany desk. "Because out on the street, they’re saying you’re losing your touch. They’re saying it’s time for a transition of power. Time for someone who can actually stand up at the syndicate table to take the reins."
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the study.
Martha’s heart pounded so loudly she was certain Vince could hear it through the wood. She pictured Maxwell sitting in that chair, paralyzed from the chest down on the outside, but burning with the fierce, coiled strength of a man who had secretly relearned how to move his own legs.
"If you ever question my authority in my own house again, Vince," Maxwell said, his voice dropping into that quiet, lethal register that made even hardened criminals wet their beds, "you won't have to worry about the syndicate table. Because you won't live long enough to reach it."
A long pause hung in the air. Vince didn't answer immediately. The ambient tension in the room felt thick enough to catch fire.
"Just checking on you, cousin," Vince muttered finally, his voice lacking its earlier bravado. "Get some rest. You look... flushed."
The heavy footsteps turned, pacing back across the study, and the double doors slammed shut with a deafening rattle.
Inside the bathroom, Martha let out a long, shuddering breath.
A moment later, the bathroom door clicked open.
Maxwell sat in his wheelchair, his face carved from granite, staring straight ahead. But his hands—resting on the armrests—were trembling slightly.
"He suspects," Martha whispered, stepping out of the dark. "Vince is testing you. He’s pushing for a coup."
"I know," Maxwell replied quietly, lifting his gaze to meet hers. "And the syndicate meeting is in exactly ten days. If I can't walk into that boardroom on my own two feet, Vince will take everything—the docks, the house, and my life."
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He looked down at his blanket-covered legs, then back up at Martha with a fierce, burning determination.
"We need to speed up the training. We have ten days to teach me how to walk again."
