Chapter 6 - THE FIRST TIME ENZO STOOD, SOMEONE TRIED TO PUT HIM BACK DOWN
Three weeks later, Enzo stood without the frame.
For nine seconds.
Two therapists remained close enough to catch him.
Dr. Patel stood in front.
I stood near the wall because I was no longer officially his primary nurse.
I had reduced to consulting shifts while replacement team took over.
That boundary mattered.
Enzo gripped parallel bars.
His legs trembled violently.
“Ready?”
Patel asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
He glared.
Apparently everyone had adopted the word.
“Go.”
He pushed.
His hips lifted.
Knees almost folded.
He corrected.
Then he was upright.
Not gracefully.
Not strongly.
But upright.
I stopped breathing.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Enzo looked down at his own feet.
Four.
Five.
His left knee shook.
Six.
“Don’t lock it.”
I said automatically.
He adjusted.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Then a window exploded.
The sound ripped through the rehabilitation room.
Glass burst inward.
Everyone dropped.
Security alarms screamed.
One therapist pulled Enzo down behind padded equipment.
I hit the floor instinctively.
A second impact struck the wall high above us.
Not movie-perfect.
Dust and plaster.
Panic.
Enzo reached toward the holster one of his guards had foolishly left in sight? Better he wouldn't have a gun during PT. He reached toward nearby security guard? Let's avoid.
He shouted:
“Claire!”
“I’m here.”
“Patel?”
“Here.”
No one visibly hit.
Security moved.
The attack ended as quickly as it began.
Law enforcement arrived.
The estate locked down.
I sat on floor shaking.
Not injured.
Adrenaline.
Enzo stared at shattered windows.
His face changed into the man the city feared.
“Give me a phone.”
“No.”
A guard hesitated.
Enzo looked at him.
“Now.”
I stood.
“Who are you calling?”
“Someone who can end this.”
“Police are here.”
“Not them.”
“No.”
He turned.
“Claire.”
“You told me you wanted to dismantle the criminal side.”
“I also want to live.”
“Then don’t start a private war from a therapy mat.”
His eyes burned.
“You were in that room.”
“I know.”
“They fired at you.”
“I know.”
“I am not going to sit here—”
“Sit?”
I almost laughed.
“Terrible choice of words.”
His mouth twitched despite fury.
Good.
Then I stepped closer.
“You want to prove you changed?”
“No.”
That surprised.
“I want them dead.”
Honest.
Silence.
“Okay.”
I nodded.
“You can want that.”
His eyes narrowed.
“And?”
“You cannot do it.”
He looked at shattered glass.
His whole body trembled.
Part neurological.
Part rage.
I said quietly:
“Call Detective Mercer.”
He closed eyes.
Then:
“Give me her number.”
I almost smiled.
The shot trajectory and external security footage pointed toward a vehicle that had been parked on a public access road beyond estate perimeter.
No one inside saw shooter clearly.
But someone had leaked the exact physical-therapy time.
The schedule had changed that morning.
Only eight people knew.
One was me.
One Dr. Patel.
Two therapists.
Enzo.
His attorney.
Two security coordinators.
And his uncle Carlo’s temporary board monitor received weekly medical capacity updates through court proceedings.
There.
Not exact time? Maybe an employee inside governance portal could access. Investigators traced an unauthorized login from Carlo-linked counsel.
Enough.
The attack accelerated warrants.
Carlo’s offices searched.
Vinnie Rostov arrested the same week on separate lending and conspiracy charges.
Sebastian Vale was found in a motel outside Indianapolis and taken into custody.
Dr. Salerno remained detained pending charges.
One by one, people who had made Enzo’s helplessness profitable began losing control.
But Enzo’s own exposure grew too.
Because when federal agents entered Carlo’s offices, they found records of criminal transactions Enzo had personally authorized years earlier.
He told me before press did.
“I’m likely being charged.”
We sat in the estate library, temporary plywood covering a shattered window.
“For what?”
“Bribery.”
“Extortion conspiracy.”
“Illegal transport.”
“Financial structuring.”
“Violence?”
His jaw tightened.
“Some actions I authorized resulted in people being hurt.”
I looked at him.
“Were you surprised?”
“No.”
“Then why does your face look like that?”
“Because prosecutors were abstract when they investigated other people.”
“And now?”
“They have my signature.”
Good.
No hiding.
“Are you going to cooperate?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
“Why?”
He looked toward his legs.
“I spent eight months furious that other people controlled my life through secrets.”
“I don’t get to keep mine because they are inconvenient.”
That sentence mattered.
Then:
“Also, my attorney says it may reduce my sentence.”
I laughed.
“There.”
“Honesty.”
“Much better.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I need you to leave.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“The compound.”
“Why?”
“Threat level.”
“There it is again.”
“No.”
He caught himself.
“Would you consider moving somewhere not tied to me until arrests stabilize?”
Better.
“Yes.”
Relief.
“But I choose.”
“Yes.”
“No Duca—” Wrong story. No. “No Marchetti property.”
His eyes tightened.
“Yes.”
“I pay.”
“Yes.”
“No hidden security.”
“Visible, if any, coordinated through police.”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“Good.”
He groaned.
Then:
“Claire.”
“What?”
“If something had happened to you…”
I waited.
He could not finish.
I knew.
“Nothing did.”
“That is not enough.”
“It has to be for tonight.”
His eyes met mine.
Then he asked:
“Can I hold your hand?”
The question startled me.
Not kiss.
Not touch.
Hand.
I looked at him.
The man who had once gathered my life into a folder without permission was now asking before touching two square inches of skin.
“Yes.”
His fingers closed around mine.
His right hand still trembled.
I held anyway.
No promise.
No forgiveness.
Just a moment.
Then his phone rang.
His attorney.
Enzo listened.
His face changed.
“What?”
I asked after he hung up.
“Sebastian is cooperating.”
“And?”
“He says Carlo knew about your father’s archive.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Because Edward Hall gave one copy of his findings to my father.”
“And?”
“My father hid it.”
“Where?”
“Inside a classified medical compliance file.”
“Whose?”
Enzo looked at me.
“Mine.”
That made no sense.
Until he added:
“The file traveled with my emergency medical records after the crash.”
My chest went cold.
Carlo had not only been suppressing Enzo’s recovery.
He had been searching Enzo’s medical system for the evidence my father left behind nine years ago.
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And suddenly the falsified neurological treatment, the missing scans, and the people cycling through Enzo’s bedside looked like more than one assassination attempt.
Someone believed the secret that could destroy them had been hidden inside the paperwork surrounding a man they were trying to keep helpless.
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