The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway struck seven times, its heavy bronze chimes vibrating through the dark stone walls of the Pascale estate.

The illusion of safety within the Pascale estate shattered on a rainy Thursday afternoon exactly six weeks into my contract.

I was working with Massimo in the private gymnasium, guiding him through a set of seated cable rows designed to build upper-body endurance, when the estate’s master alarm system suddenly wailed—a high-pitched, piercing shriek that instantly cut through the peaceful hum of the training equipment.

Massimo froze. The heavy metal handle slipped from his fingers, clattering against the weight stack.

In less than three seconds, the gym door flew open, and Rocco, Massimo’s chief of security, rushed in, his face pale and dripping with rain, a submachine gun clutched tightly in his hands.

“Boss! We’ve been breached!” Rocco shouted over the alarm. “The eastern gate security grid was overridden by a tactical squad. They’re inside the perimeter!”

Massimo didn't panic. The terrified, vulnerable man I had seen in the library vanished in an instant, replaced entirely by the cold, ruthless syndicate boss who commanded an army.

“How many?” Massimo demanded, wheeling his chair around with lightning speed.

“At least ten,” Rocco replied, panting slightly. “It’s the Moretti faction from Providence. They heard you were incapacitated; they’re here for a hostile takeover of the shipping docks.”

My breath caught in my throat. Moretti. The same family name Elena had mentioned on my very first day. Real mafia warfare wasn't a movie; it was terrifying, chaotic, and deadly close.

“Take Tessa down to the reinforced panic room beneath the kitchen,” Massimo commanded, his voice ringing with absolute, unyielding authority.

“No,” I said immediately.

Both men turned to stare at me as if I had lost my mind.

“Tessa, this is not a negotiation,” Massimo barked, his dark eyes flashing with anger. “Rocco, take her—”

“I’m a physical therapist, not a piece of luggage,” I interrupted, stepping between Massimo and the door. “If you get shot, who’s going to manage your cardiovascular stability and prevent deep vein thrombosis while you’re bleeding out? Besides, I’m not leaving you here defenseless.”

Massimo stared at me in absolute disbelief. “I am a crime syndicate leader facing an armed assassination squad, and you’re worried about my circulation?!”

“Your circulation is excellent when you’re not yelling at me!” I retorted.

Before Massimo could argue further, a deafening explosion shook the eastern wing of the mansion. Glass shattered somewhere down the hallway, followed by the sharp, terrifying rattle of automatic gunfire.

Rocco raised his weapon toward the door. “Boss, we don't have time! They’re in the main corridor!”

Massimo’s jaw set into a hard, granite line. He reached down into the side compartment of his wheelchair and pulled out a heavy, matte-black Beretta pistol, checking the magazine with a practiced, lethal click.

“Rocco, take the back service stairs and flank them from the west corridor,” Massimo ordered coldly. “Leave me the keys to the tactical armory cart.”

“Boss—”

“That’s an order!”

Rocco hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded grimly, bolted out the side exit, and slammed the heavy metal door shut behind him.

The gym suddenly felt terribly small.

Outside in the hallway, shouts echoed over the sound of breaking wood and heavy boots marching toward our location.

Massimo looked up at me, his face devoid of fear, but his eyes swimming with a desperate intensity that nearly broke my heart.

“Get under the heavy steel weight bench, Tessa,” he whispered, raising his pistol toward the door. “Now.”

“I told you, I’m not hiding,” I said, my voice trembling despite my defiance. I grabbed a heavy iron dumbbell from the rack, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal grip. “If they come through that door, I’m breaking kneecaps.”