Chapter 5 - TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS AN HOUR
Tessa wanted to go home.
I said no.
She stared at me.
“You don’t get to imprison me for my safety.”
The sentence landed harder than she intended.
Maybe she realized because her expression changed.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.”
I looked toward Antonio.
“Give us a minute.”
He left the library.
Tessa remained standing.
I was in the wheelchair beside the fire.
My back ached.
My hips ached.
One calf had started spasming every fifteen minutes.
I hated days when my body seemed determined to remind me who controlled what.
“You have a sister,” I said.
Tessa’s expression sharpened.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t make her part of this.”
“I’m trying to protect her.”
“I know exactly what you’re trying to do.”
She rubbed both hands over her face.
She looked exhausted.
More exhausted than I had noticed before.
“You pay an agency thirty-five dollars an hour to have me here. I get twenty-five.”
“I remember.”
“That means when I go home, I don’t have private security. I have a deadbolt that sticks.”
“I can fix that.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“What is?”
She looked at me.
“The point is I came here to do a job.”
“And now somebody put your photograph in an abandoned car.”
“Yes.”
“Which changes the job.”
She laughed bitterly.
“It changes everything.”
Silence.
Then she sat.
Not on the chair across from me.
On the edge of the sofa.
“My sister is seventeen.”
I remembered she had medical bills.
“What’s wrong?”
Tessa hesitated.
“Kidney disease.”
Her voice stayed practical.
“She’s been sick since she was twelve. Stable now. Mostly. But medications, appointments, transportation—it adds up.”
“Your parents?”
“My dad died four years ago.”
“The elevator mechanic.”
She looked surprised I remembered.
“Yes.”
“Mother?”
“Left when we were kids.”
No drama.
Just fact.
So Tessa had become the adult.
Same way she became the person in my bedroom who remembered every small detail other people ignored.
“You work nights too?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
“Rehab center.”
I frowned.
“You leave here at seven and work somewhere else?”
“Not every day.”
“Tessa.”
“Rent doesn’t care whether I’m tired. Remember?”
I did.
“You shouldn’t have to—”
She raised a hand.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don’t solve it.”
I stared.
She continued.
“I know who you are. I know you can probably make every bill disappear before breakfast.”
“I can.”
“That’s exactly why I’m saying no.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to understand something.”
She leaned forward.
“I’m helping you because it is my job and because I believe you deserve proper care.”
Her voice softened.
“I don’t want that turned into something I owe you for.”
That embarrassed me.
Not because she was wrong.
Because my first instinct had been exactly that.
Turn gratitude into money.
Turn fear into security.
Turn every human problem into something I could control with resources.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
She studied me.
“Good.”
I looked toward the window.
“You still can’t go home.”
She sighed.
“You were doing well.”
“I said I’m trying, not cured.”
That got a laugh.
Small.
Real.
“Guest room.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“I’ll stay in the staff quarters.”
“You’re not staff tonight.”
“I am literally staff.”
“Not tonight.”
She stared.
I raised both hands.
“Guest room. Your choice of floor. Door locks from inside. Nobody enters. Antonio arranges protection for your sister without contacting her directly until you call her.”
She considered.
“Two guards outside her building.”
“Four.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
“You negotiate badly when tired.”
“Go to bed.”
She stood.
Then paused.
“Therapy at ten.”
“What?”
“Daniel moved it earlier.”
“Why?”
“Because your hip contraction was stronger today.”
That sentence changed the room.
I looked at her.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You had a coup happening.”
“Still.”
She smiled.
“Ten.”
The following morning, I worked until my arms shook.
Daniel placed electrical stimulation pads along my thighs.
Tessa stabilized my trunk.
“Push.”
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Third time.
Tiny contraction.
Left side.
Then right.
Daniel looked stunned.
Not miracle stunned.
Clinical stunned.
“There.”
I breathed hard.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we keep working.”
Good.
No promises.
Tessa grinned.
“Again.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Currently debatable.”
For forty minutes, I forgot Varga.
Arya.
Pier Six.
The photograph of Tessa.
There was only muscle.
Breath.
Pain.
Effort.
At the end, Daniel helped me practice transfers without the board.
Chair to mat.
My arms locked.
I lifted.
Moved.
Almost.
Tessa held my belt lightly.
Not pulling.
Just there.
I landed badly but safely.
Daniel smiled.
“That’s the best transfer you’ve done.”
I looked at Tessa.
She nodded once.
No applause.
Exactly right.
Then Antonio entered.
His face ended the moment.
“We found Claire.”
Alive.
She had gone to her cousin’s apartment after realizing Varga’s people were watching her.
She agreed to talk.
Not because we threatened her.
Because she was terrified Varga would blame her for the plan failing.
We met in the downstairs office.
Claire cried before sitting.
“I didn’t know what they were doing at first.”
I had heard that sentence too many times.
“What did you know?”
“A man paid me for reports.”
“What man?”
“Samuel introduced us.”
“Varga?”
She nodded.
“What did you give him?”
“Your progress notes.”
Tessa’s jaw tightened.
“My notes?”
Claire looked ashamed.
“Copies.”
Tessa kept handwritten bedside observations because agency software was terrible.
I had teased her about it.
Somebody had been copying them.
“Medication?” I asked.
Claire nodded.
“What?”
“A sedative.”
“How often?”
“Four times.”
Tessa’s face went white.
“Four?”
Claire cried harder.
“The dose was small.”
“You drugged a spinal-cord patient.”
“I know.”
Tessa’s voice rose.
“What if his blood pressure dropped?”
“I checked him.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.”
I reached back.
Touched Tessa’s wrist.
Not to silence her.
To ground her.
She looked at me.
I understood the anger.
This had been her patient.
Her work.
Her responsibility.
Someone had used care as a weapon.
“What did Varga want?” I asked.
Claire wiped her face.
“He wanted the captains to believe you were declining.”
“Anything else?”
“Your bowel schedule.”
I stared.
Of all the humiliating things.
“Why?”
“So meetings could be arranged when you were least comfortable.”
Silence.
That one hurt differently.
Not because bodily care embarrassed me.
Tessa had somehow stripped much of that shame away.
Because another man had weaponized the most private details of my disability to make me look weak publicly.
Claire continued.
“He wanted to know when you had pain. Spasms. Fatigue. Anything.”
Antonio muttered something in Italian.
“What was Arya’s role?”
Claire looked surprised.
“None with me.”
I believed her.
Arya had done enough without inventing more.
“Did Varga arrange the shooting?”
Claire shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Who would?”
She hesitated.
“Samuel said something once.”
“What?”
“He said the wrong Corvino got hit.”
Dominic.
The room changed.
Antonio leaned forward.
“What exactly?”
Claire thought.
“He was angry after a phone call. He said, ‘Varga promised me Dominic would be the one out of the way. Instead we got the wrong Corvino crippled and now everything is harder.’”
Nobody moved.
I felt cold from my chest down.
Not sensation.
Something else.
The shooting had been intended for Dominic.
“Why?” Tessa asked.
Antonio answered.
“Because Dominic opposed giving Varga access to the north routes.”
I looked at him.
“So did I.”
“Yes.”
“But Dominic was running negotiations that month.”
“Yes.”
The ambush outside Warehouse Four.
I had gone there unexpectedly.
Dominic was supposed to attend.
I remembered.
He had called me that afternoon.
Sick child.
Asked me to cover.
I had been shot because I took his meeting.
Dominic had spent six months growing into the space my injury created.
But maybe he had been the original target.
That changed everything.
Or maybe someone wanted me to believe it did.
Antonio saw the doubt.
“We verify.”
“Yes.”
Tessa looked at me.
“You think Dominic might still be involved.”
“I think I was wrong once already about what people closest to me were capable of.”
She nodded.
Fair.
Claire gave us one more name.
Peter Morelli.
A port dispatcher.
Varga’s middleman.
Antonio found him by afternoon.
Not hidden.
At work.
Because men who survive schemes often do so by looking ordinary.
Peter agreed to meet at an old union hall.
I went.
Wheelchair and all.
Tessa objected.
“Security.”
“No.”
“Accessible entrance.”
“Yes.”
“Medication.”
“Yes.”
“Pressure cushion.”
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“You’re worse than Antonio.”
Antonio, beside us, said:
“Finally someone says it.”
At the union hall, Peter Morelli looked at me for too long.
I noticed.
So did Tessa.
She had insisted on coming because she said anyone who knew my medical schedule might notice things security wouldn’t.
She was right.
Peter sat.
Antonio asked:
“Who ordered the Warehouse Four ambush?”
Peter swallowed.
“Varga financed it.”
“For Dominic?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Why did the shooter fire at me?”
“He didn’t know it was you until afterward.”
“So it was mistaken identity.”
“Yes.”
“Why shoot to paralyze?”
Peter stared.
“What?”
Antonio repeated.
“The shot placement.”
Peter looked genuinely confused.
“He wasn’t told to paralyze anybody.”
The room went silent.
“What was he told?”
“Kill Dominic.”
Something shifted.
The bullet had hit low because I turned at the sound of a truck.
Chance.
Not strategy.
Everything after had been opportunistic.
Varga did not create my disability as a plan.
He saw it and adapted.
Samuel saw it and adapted.
Arya saw it and abandoned me.
Different sins.
Different motives.
Same chair.
Peter continued.
“After you survived, Varga wanted to know whether you’d return.”
“And when reports said maybe?”
“He started pushing Samuel harder.”
“Pier Six.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
Peter looked nervous.
“Wedding.”
My stomach tightened.
“What about it?”
“Varga said once you married Arya, she’d convince you to move most decisions to Dominic.”
I stared.
Did Arya know that was the expectation?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Tessa looked toward the side door.
Then frowned.
“What?”
I followed her gaze.
A maintenance worker stood outside.
Tool belt.
Baseball cap.
Not looking at us.
Looking at the wheelchair.
Tessa whispered:
“His shoes.”
I almost smiled despite the danger.
“What about them?”
“He’s not maintenance.”
Antonio moved.
The man ran.
Security caught him in the lobby.
Inside his tool bag was no weapon.
Only a small device.
GPS tracker.
Designed to attach beneath a wheelchair frame.
Tessa stared.
“They were tracking him through his chair.”
Peter went pale.
Antonio looked at me.
I looked down at the machine I had spent six months resenting.
My prison.
My weakness.
Apparently also somebody’s surveillance target.
I smiled.
“Good.”
Antonio frowned.
“Good?”
“They want to know where the chair goes?”
I looked toward Tessa.
She understood before he did.
“Then send the chair somewhere useful.”
May you like
For the first time since the shooting, we were no longer reacting.
We had bait.
