Chapter 4 - The Siege of East WingThe digital clock on the bedside table glowed 2:14 a.m.
The Pascale estate was dead silent, save for the low hum of the centralized HVAC system and the distant, rhythmic patter of rain against the reinforced glass windows.
I wasn't sleeping.
I sat in the armchair beside Massimo’s bed, a heavy neurology textbook resting unopened on my lap, my eyes fixed on the sliver of moonlight filtering through the heavy velvet drapes. Ever since Salvatore’s intrusion in the pool house twelve hours ago, a thick, suffocating tension had settled over the entire East Wing. The regular estate guards had been doubled. Armed patrols moved quietly along the perimeter gravel paths outside.
And Massimo had barely spoken a word.
He lay awake across the room, staring up at the plaster ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes, lost in a war zone of his own memories.
"You should go home, Tessa," he said suddenly into the darkness. His voice was flat, devoid of its usual arrogant edge.
"My shift doesn't end for another two weeks," I replied quietly, closing the textbook and setting it on the table.
"This isn't a clinic anymore," Massimo turned his head on the pillow, his stormy eyes catching the pale moonlight. "Salvatore isn't playing games. He knows the commission is moving on my Boston docks tonight. By sunrise, this house is going to be a battlefield."
"Then it's a good thing I brought my medical kit," I said, standing up and walking over to his bedside. "Because if anyone gets shot, you're going to need someone who knows how to pack a wound without fainting."
Massimo let out a harsh, dry breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "You're out of your mind, do you know that? Fifty thousand dollars isn't enough hazard pay for this."
"You're right. I should's negotiated for seventy."
Before Massimo could reply, a muffled thud echoed from somewhere down the grand hallway—the unmistakable sound of heavy timber splintering under a tactical breach.
The security lights outside the East Wing windows flickered once, twice, and then plunged into absolute darkness as the estate's main generator was cut.
Massimo’s eyes flared. In a split second, all the vulnerability vanished, replaced by the lethal, calculating instincts of a mob boss who had survived a dozen assassination attempts.
"Under the bed," Massimo commanded, his voice dropping into a sharp, military whisper. "Now, Tessa."
"I'm not leaving you here—"
"Get under the bed! That's an order!" He lunged sideways, using his powerful arms to haul his torso off the mattress onto the floor, dragging his paralyzed legs behind him with desperate speed.
Before I could argue, the door to the private suite exploded inward.
Splintered wood and shattered brass rained across the imported Persian rug as three men in black tactical gear and night-vision goggles surged into the room.
I dropped to my knees, scrambling backward behind the heavy oak dresser just as the first automatic rifle round tore through the wall above my head, raining plaster dust down into my hair.
"Clear!" shouted a harsh voice through a tactical comms unit.
"Where is he?" another voice yelled. "Find him! Salvatore wants him alive—for about five minutes!"
From across the room, half-hidden in the deep shadows near the floor-to-ceiling windows, Massimo let out a savage roar.
He didn't have a gun. But he had a heavy, steel-framed titanium wheelchair.
With a burst of adrenaline-fueled fury, Massimo grabbed the massive metal wheel of his chair and hurled it directly at the lead intruder’s knees. The heavy metal frame connected with a sickening crunch, sending the gunman crashing hard onto the tile floor, his rifle clattering across the room.
"Intruders in East Wing!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, pressing the panic button on my medical pager that was wired directly to the estate's inner security bunker.
The second intruder pivoted toward me, raising his silenced pistol. "Shut her up!"
My heart stopped.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact.
Bang.
The gunshot deafened the small room. But the bullet didn't hit me.
A heavy body slammed into the floor beside the dresser. I opened my eyes cautiously. One of the loyal estate guards—the burly man who had checked my medical bag on my first day—had burst through the connecting panic door, his own weapon smoking as he stood over the neutralized intruder.
"Boss! Are you hit?" the guard shouted, firing twice toward the hallway.
"I'm fine!" Massimo’s voice barked from the shadows. He had dragged himself across the floor to the fallen intruder’s side, his fingers prying the tactical combat knife from the man’s web gear with cold, terrifying efficiency.
Alarms began to wail across the estate—shrill, piercing sirens that flooded the corridors with strobing red emergency light.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway as more guards poured into the East Wing, returning fire with disciplined, overwhelming force.
Within ninety seconds, the brief, brutal skirmish was over. The surviving intruders were dragged out into the hallway, leaving the bedroom smelling heavily of cordite, blood, and ozone.
I slowly stood up from behind the dresser, brushing white plaster dust from my blouse, my hands shaking so violently I could barely lace my fingers together.
Massimo sat on the floor against the wall, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his brow, clutching the tactical knife in one hand while his paralyzed legs stretched uselessly before him.
He looked up, his dark eyes scanning me frantically from head to toe. "Tessa. Are you hurt?"
"I'm... I'm fine," I whispered, walking over and kneeling beside him on the blood-stained rug. I reached out, my fingers gently touching his shoulder to check for shrapnel or secondary injuries.
Massimo caught my hand. His grip was tight, desperate, and trembling.
May you like
"I told you to leave," he muttered, his voice cracking with a raw emotion I had never heard before. "I told you this world would chew you up and spit you out."
"You did," I said softly, meeting his intense gaze as the wailing alarms continued to echo around us. "Good thing I never listen."
