Chapter 4 - The Man in the Wheelchair
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Sebastian Lombardi.
Clare knew the name. Everyone in Chicago knew some version of it. He was the head of the Lombardi syndicate, a man who controlled the docks, the unions, and the shadows of the city.
He slowly turned his wheelchair to face her. At forty-two, he had silver beginning at his temples and shoulders strengthened by two decades of moving himself. His jawline was sharp, his eyes a cold, piercing blue that felt like a physical strike. His gaze passed over her worn scrubs, practical shoes, and tightly braided hair, assessing her in a fraction of a second.
“Another miracle worker?” Sebastian’s voice was a low, gravelly baritone that commanded the room.
Gabriel remained near the door, his hands clasped behind his back. “She’s a physical therapist.”
“Good,” Sebastian sneered softly. “Perhaps she’ll tell me my attitude caused the paralysis. Or maybe she’ll offer me healing crystals.”
Clare put her bag down on a leather ottoman. The fear was still there, but her professional instinct began to override it.
“I can assess pain and function,” Clare said, looking him dead in the eye. “I can’t promise miracles.”
Sebastian tilted his head. “I’ve heard that before.”
“Then you can spend the hour repeating yourself,” Clare shot back, surprising even herself, “or you can let me work.”
Gabriel stiffened by the door, clearly waiting for Sebastian to explode. No one spoke to the Don like that.
May you like
Sebastian watched her. The silence stretched until it felt like the glass windows might shatter. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
It did not make him look safer. It made him look like a wolf who had just found a prey that was actually willing to fight back.
