Chapter 4 - The Night of the First BedAt 11:30 PM that evening, the sprawling fifty-acre Moretti Estate in River Forest was wrapped in high-level security.
Inside the grand master suite on the second floor, the soft glow of a roaring fireplace illuminated the dark wood paneling and high ceilings.
For twelve years, a heavy, velvet-upholstered executive chair had sat beside the hearth—the chair where Mateo Moretti had spent four thousand three hundred and eighty nights sitting upright, sleeping in two-hour increments, surrounded by heat pads and bottles of unpicked pain medication.
Tonight, that chair was pushed into the corner of the room.
I stood near the foot of the massive king-sized bed, wearing my comfortable gray track pants and a dark t-shirt. I had stayed at the estate to monitor his spinal alignment through the night, ensuring his nervous system didn't rebound into a protective spasm.
Mateo walked out of the adjoining bathroom wearing dark silk lounge trousers, barefoot, his chest bare, exposing his hard, scar-lined torso.
He stopped at the edge of the bed.
He stared at the crisp white sheets, the soft plush pillows, as if looking at a dangerous, unfamiliar territory.
"You can sit on the edge first," I suggested softly, offering a warm, encouraging smile. "Let your body realize the surface is soft."
Mateo sat on the edge of the mattress. The memory of twelve years of sharp, blinding agony every time his back touched a flat surface made his jaw tighten slightly.
"Lay back slowly, Mateo," I instructed, sitting beside his knee, keeping my hand gently placed under his left lower back to offer structural support. "Trust your spine."
Mateo took a deep breath, lowered his shoulders, and swung his legs onto the mattress.
His head touched the plush white pillow.
His back lay flat against the bed.
For ten seconds, he remained completely still, waiting for the familiar, agonizing knife of nerve pain to strike his hip.
Nothing happened.
The sheets were warm. His spine remained loose, aligned, and entirely painless.
Mateo let out a long, shuddering exhale—a sound of raw, profound relief that had been buried in his chest for twelve years.
He turned his head on the pillow, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse race.
"I am lying in a bed, Gia," Mateo whispered, his deep voice thick with an overwhelming surge of emotion.
"You are lying in a bed, Mateo," I replied softly, my hand still resting against his warm ribs. "And you are going to sleep."
He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently wrapping around my fingers, holding my hand against his chest.
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Within seven minutes, the most feared mafia boss in Chicago was fast asleep flat on his back, his breathing deep, rhythmic, and unbroken.
I sat beside him in the quiet warmth of the firelight, watching his severe, handsome face soften into absolute peace, knowing that my technique had given a ruined king his life back.
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