Chapter 2 - The Sound of Glass Breaking
By week two, the routine had settled into a brutal, exhausting rhythm. Every morning at seven, I pushed Massimo into the estate’s private indoor gymnasium—a massive, vaulted room that looked less like a clinic and more like a high-end training facility for elite athletes, complete with state-of-the-art resistance machines, parallel bars, and a suspended harness system.
And every morning, the battle of wills recommenced.
“Higher,” I instructed, standing beside the parallel bars where Massimo was attempting to support his body weight using only his arms and core.
“I can't,” he gritted through clenched teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the polished wooden rails. Sweat beaded across his forehead, running down his sharp cheekbones and soaking into the collar of his black t-shirt.
“You can,” I corrected firmly, placing my hands lightly against his lower back to provide stabilization without lifting him. “Your arms are strong enough, Massimo. Stop relying on your shoulders and engage your core. Breathe.”
“Don't tell me to breathe,” he snarled, a sudden surge of frustrated anger overriding his control.
With a violent jerk, he tried to force his legs to move, commanding muscles that refused to listen. When his feet dragged uselessly against the rubber mat, a raw, primal sound of rage ripped from his throat. He let go of the bars entirely, his upper body slumping forward, his fists slamming down onto the parallel bars with a deafening crash that echoed off the high glass ceiling.
The gym door clicked open instantly.
Two armed guards in dark suits stepped halfway into the room, their hands resting on their holstered firearms, their eyes darting around for a threat.
“Get out!” Massimo roared, his voice shaking the very air in the room. “I didn't call for you! Get out before I have you both stripped of your ranks!”
The guards didn't hesitate; they stepped backward and clicked the heavy door shut, leaving us alone once more in the echoing silence.
I didn't move. I didn't flinch. I simply stood beside the parallel bars, watching the rise and fall of his broad chest as he panted, trying to regain his composure.
“Are you done?” I asked quietly.
Massimo kept his face turned downward toward the floor, his dark hair shielding his eyes. His shoulders were trembling—not from physical exhaustion, but from the crushing weight of his humiliation.
“You should leave,” he whispered, his voice dangerously hollow. “Take your check, pack your bags, and go back to Boston. Tell Camila you tried. Tell her the monster was too broken to fix.”
I walked around the parallel bars, stepping directly into his line of sight, and crouched down so my eyes were level with his.
“Listen to me very carefully, Massimo Pascale,” I said, my voice steady, clear, and unyielding. “I didn't come here to fix a monster. I came here to help a man who forgot how to fight for himself. If you want to sit in this chair and throw a tantrum like a toddler every time your legs don't obey you, be my guest. But you will not insult my intelligence by telling me to quit.”
He slowly raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, burning with a mix of fury and something terrifyingly fragile.
“You don't know what I used to be,” he said, his voice barely a rasp.
“I don't care what you used to be,” I answered softly, reaching out to place my hand gently over his clenched fist. For a split second, I felt him try to pull away, but he stopped. “I only care about who you are right now. And right now, you’re acting like a coward.”
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A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth. Nobody—not his captains, not his rivals, not even the priests who occasionally visited the estate—had ever called Massimo Pascale a coward to his face.
Instead of exploding, however, something shifted behind his dark eyes. The anger receded, replaced by an astonishing, quiet defeat. He slowly turned his hand over, his fingers curling instinctively around mine, holding on with a desperate grip that betrayed how terrifyingly alone he truly felt.
