Chương 7
Instead, Massimo rolled onto his side, pulled himself toward the wheelchair by one arm, and rested. He moved six inches at a time. Sweat soaked his shirt. His useless left leg caught beneath him. Twice he nearly blacked out.
When he finally reached the chair, he could not climb into it.
He lay with his cheek against the wheel and laughed once, bitterly, at the absurdity of a man who had ordered killings from hotel suites now defeated by upholstery.
The door opened.
Carla returned alone.
She had washed her face, but the skin around her eyes was red.
Neither spoke.
She brought a transfer board from the closet, positioned it between the floor and chair, and helped him slide upward. Her movements were efficient, not gentle.
Once he was seated, she cleaned the blood from his mouth.
“I am sorry,” Massimo said.
She kept dabbing his lip.
“That sounded painful.”
“It was meant to.”
“Then say it to her.”
“I will.”
Carla threw the stained gauze into a bag.
“My husband used to yell when he was scared. He would apologize afterward and say fear made him someone else.”
Massimo looked at her.
“Did you believe him?”
“I believed he was afraid. I also believed Nina still heard him.”
She left the room.
That evening, Massimo found Nina beneath the dining table, feeding crumbs to her stuffed rabbit.
He had Carla wheel him close, then asked to be left alone.
Nina refused to look up.
“I shouted at you,” he said.
The rabbit received another crumb.
“I was angry at myself.”
“Mommy says angry doesn’t get to be mean.”
“Your mother is correct.”
“She says that a lot.”
“I have noticed.”
Nina finally looked at him.
“Are your feet bad?”
“No.”
“Are they lazy?”
“Possibly.”
She thought about that.
“Mine get tired.”
“So do mine.”
He placed the gray potato-shaped stone on the floor between them.
“I kept this.”
Nina picked it up, inspected it, and handed it to the rabbit.
“You can try again tomorrow,” she said.
It was forgiveness without ceremony. Massimo found it more painful than punishment.
The next morning, Dean moved the wedding forward.
He announced it over coffee.
“Saturday,” he said. “The Ashwood board can all attend, the governor’s fundraiser was canceled, and Camille’s father wants the legal restructuring finished before quarter close.”
Massimo looked across the table.
“The wedding is in nine days.”
“Now it is in four.”
Camille stirred yogurt she was not eating.
“It makes no difference.”
“To whom?”
Her spoon stopped.
“To the marriage.”
Dean spread documents beside Massimo’s plate.
“The physicians have also recommended updating your healthcare proxy and the voting trust. Standard planning.”
“Hale recommended this?”
“He and the attorneys.”
Massimo scanned the first page.
Upon marriage, Camille would receive authority over medical decisions if Massimo were deemed incapacitated. Dean would become permanent operating trustee of the family’s legitimate companies. The arrangement had existed in earlier drafts, but the new language broadened the definition of incapacity and removed a clause allowing Massimo’s cousins to review the trust.
“You changed Section Eight,” Massimo said.
Dean poured coffee.
“The lawyers clarified it.”
“Without me.”
“You have not attended a board meeting since May.”
“I was shot.”
“Yes,” Dean said quietly. “I remember.”
The room tightened around the words.
Camille set down her spoon.
“Can we not do this at breakfast?”
Massimo closed the folder.
“Saturday is acceptable.”
Dean studied him.
The answer had been too easy. Massimo saw suspicion arrive and settle behind his friend’s eyes.
“Good,” Dean said.
He pushed the folder closer.
“Sign before Hale’s appointment.”
“I will read it first.”
“You just did.”
“I read one page.”
“The remaining pages are routine.”
Massimo placed the folder on his lap.
“Then you will not mind waiting.”
Dean’s smile returned.
“Of course not.”
That afternoon, Sal discovered that Ashwood Maritime had paid Dr. Hale’s consulting company nearly four hundred thousand dollars over six months.
The payments were labeled risk assessments.
“What risks?” Massimo asked.
“Apparently the risk of you improving,” Sal said.
They sat in the hidden service tunnel beneath the north wing. The space smelled of dust and rusted pipes. Sal had brought a laptop and a battery-powered lamp. Carla remained upstairs with Nina, monitoring the hall.
“There’s more,” Sal said. “Ashwood Maritime is drowning. Debt, lawsuits, a federal customs inquiry. Camille’s father needs the Rinaldi shipping contracts to keep lenders from taking the company.”
“Camille knows?”
“She sits on the board.”
Massimo studied a spreadsheet. Camille had never discussed Ashwood’s condition. She had spoken of seating charts, foundation dinners, and which photographs of Massimo in the wheelchair could be released to the press.
“Dean promised them our contracts,” Sal said. “The signed trust gives him authority. The marriage gives Camille medical control. If you die after both take effect, nobody has to fight over succession.”
“They would still have to answer to my cousins.”
“Your cousins receive cash distributions. Dean controls operations.”
Massimo shut the laptop.
“You are enjoying this too much.”
“I dislike being right about friends.”
“You were never his friend.”
“I was yours.”
The past tense hung between them.
Massimo leaned back against the stone wall.
“Why did the police question you after the ambush?”
Sal stared at the lamp.
“Dean told them I had changed the route.”
“You said he changed it.”
“He used my credentials.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I tried. Hale said you could not tolerate stress. Dean took your phone. Camille told me you had asked not to see anyone from security.”
Massimo recalled waking in the hospital to Dean beside the bed. Dean’s shoulder wrapped in bandages. Camille asleep in a chair. Hale speaking gently about permanent damage.
He had never asked who decided Sal could not enter.
“After you fired me,” Sal said, “I considered sending you the records. Then my oldest boy found a photograph under his windshield wiper. Him walking his daughter to school.”
May you like
Massimo looked at him.
“Why did you come when I called?”
