Chapter 2 - The First ReleaseThe training room on the second floor of the warehouse was private, lined with high-density physical therapy mats, anatomical charts, and specialized mobility equipment.
Outside the heavy oak doors, Enzo and two enforcers stood guard, while Leo sat at a desk in the main office, quietly reading his textbooks.
Inside, Mateo lay face down on a padded adjustment table. He had removed his shirt, exposing a torso carved of dense, hard muscle, crisscrossed with silver combat scars and a deep, jagged scar along his left flank from the twelve-year-old bomb blast.
I stood beside the table, wearing my gray sweatshirt, my hair tied back in a tight ponytail. My hands were warmed with specialized deep-tissue liniment oil.
"This is going to hurt, Mr. Moretti," I warned softly, setting my palms flat against his left mid-back, right over the rock-hard spasm that had locked his spine for twelve years.
"I've lived with pain for twelve years, Gia," Mateo rasped out, his deep voice muffled against the padded headrest. "Do what you have to do."
I didn't hesitate.
I shifted my body weight, leaning my hips into the movement, using my forearm to apply a deep, precise fascial release along his left paraspinal line.
Mateo’s entire frame went rigid as iron. His large hands gripped the edges of the table so hard the leather groaned, his knuckles turning paper-white. A deep, guttural breath hissed through his teeth, but he didn't make a sound. He didn't flinch away.
"Breathe, Mateo," I commanded gently, dropping the formal title as my fingers worked deep into the calcified muscle tissue. "Exhale through your mouth. Your nervous system is holding onto a spasm from a blast that happened twelve years ago. Let the muscle let go."
For five minutes, the room was filled with the sound of his heavy, rhythmic breathing and the firm, methodical pressure of my hands breaking down twelve years of scar tissue.
Then came the moment of skeletal realignment.
I placed my right hand flat over his lower thoracic vertebra, anchoring his hip with my left hand, setting up a classic wrestling leverage angle.
"Deep breath in," I instructed.
Mateo inhaled deeply.
"Exhale completely."
As his chest sank into the table, I applied a short, crisp, high-velocity thrust through my palms.
CRACK-CRACK.
A deep, hollow release echoed through the quiet room.
Mateo went completely still.
His hands released their grip on the table edges. His shoulders, which had been permanently hunched near his ears for a decade, suddenly dropped two inches flat against the padding.
For thirty seconds, he lay motionless.
"Mateo...?" I whispered, leaning down slightly. "Are you alright?"
Slowly, deliberately, Mateo turned his head. His storm-gray eyes were wide, filled with a sudden, overwhelming shock.
He pushed himself up off the table, moving with a fluid, effortless grace he hadn't possessed in twelve years. He swung his legs over the side, sitting upright, his spine straight, his posture balanced.
He took a deep, full breath—a breath that expanded his chest without a single wince of pain.
He looked down at his left leg. He moved his knee. The dragging sensation was gone.
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Mateo looked up at me. The ruthless, untouchable mafia boss stared at a five-foot-five wrestling coach as if I had just brought him back from the dead.
"The pain..." Mateo whispered, his voice cracking into a raw, disbelieving thread. "It's... gone."
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