Chapter 7 - The Choice
Two weeks later, the Boston skyline loomed outside the window of my small apartment.
I stood in the center of the room, looking at the framed acceptance letter hanging above my desk. The tuition had been paid in full—an anonymous wire transfer that arrived the morning after the Moretti attack, though I knew exactly whose signature authorized it.
My apartment looked smaller than I remembered. The walls looked dingy. The pipes still made strange, clicking noises when the radiator kicked on.
Yet, I felt entirely different. The girl who had left this apartment six weeks ago—desperate, overwhelmed, and terrified of failing—was gone.
A soft knock sounded at my front door.
My heart skipped a beat. I walked across the room in four steps and pulled the door open.
Standing in the hallway wasn't a black sedan driver.
It was Massimo.
He wasn't in a wheelchair. He stood upright, leaning heavily against a pair of sleek, custom-designed carbon-fiber forearm crutches, his shoulders squared, dressed in a sharp black wool coat over a charcoal suit. His face was pale from the exertion, and sweat beaded along his hairline, but he was standing on his own two feet.
Camila stood a few steps behind him, holding a bouquet of flowers and grinning like she had just won the lottery.
“You’re out of uniform, Mr. Pascale,” I managed to say, a lump forming in my throat as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.
Massimo smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his harsh features into something breathtakingly handsome.
“The doctor in Boston cleared me for travel,” he said, his voice rich and steady. “And my physical therapist in New York told me that walking without supervision in public was part of my rehabilitation homework.”
“New York?” I raised an eyebrow. “Who said anything about moving to New York?”
Massimo took a slow, deliberate step forward on his crutches, closing the distance between us until he stood right on the threshold of my apartment.
“I bought a brownstone in Manhattan,” he said smoothly. “Big enough for a physical therapy clinic on the ground floor, and a very comfortable home upstairs. And I happen to know a brilliant neurological physical therapist who is currently looking for a permanent patient.”
I let out a shaky laugh, a tear spilling over my lower eyelid and tracking down my cheek.
“You bought a building just so I wouldn't leave?”
“I’m a mafia boss, Tessa,” he replied, his dark eyes dancing with unmistakable amusement. “We tend to be a little possessive of the things that save our lives.”
I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him close, burying my face against his shoulder as he carefully adjusted his crutches to hold me tight.
“You’re an impossible patient,” I whispered against his skin.
“And you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he murmured into my hair.
Behind us, Camila cleared her throat loudly. “So... does this mean I’m invited to the wedding, or am I just the matchmaker who gets a thank-you card?”
Massimo pulled back slightly, looking down at me with a raised eyebrow and a wicked smirk.
May you like
“Tell your friend she can be the maid of honor,” Massimo said. “Provided she promises never to send another desperate physical therapist into my life again.”
“No promises,” I laughed, kissing him softly as the sun broke through the gray Boston clouds, casting a golden light over both our futures.
