Chapter 4 - The Secrets of the Lower Level
The dinner party dispersed in a rush of nervous farewells before four in the afternoon.
The incident with Salvatore Leone had sent a clear signal through the ranks of the Philadelphia syndicate.
Cedric Spedaro was not an invalid waiting to be replaced; he was an executioner waiting for an excuse.
Yet the violence I had witnessed only deepened the mystery surrounding him.
How had a man with such terrifying speed and authority ended up in a wheelchair in the first place?
Tomaso had vanished with several lieutenants to monitor the docks, leaving the estate quiet once again.
Cedric had retreated to the west wing, giving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed until evening.
The house was empty, wrapped in the golden glow of late afternoon shadows.
I walked the long corridors of the ground floor, my mind churning with unresolved questions.
"The underground garage is off-limits," Cedric had warned on my first night.
"Because I said so."
In my experience, whenever a powerful man strictly forbade a door, it was because the truth was locked behind it.
I found the heavy steel door concealed behind a decorative tapestry near the service pantry.
It had a digital keypad, but the heavy magnetic lock was disengaged, the latch resting slightly ajar.
Someone had been careless, or perhaps someone had forgotten to seal it during the commotion of the lunch.
I glanced over my shoulder down the empty hallway.
No one was watching.
I slipped through the opening and pulled the door almost shut behind me, leaving a crack of light.
A concrete staircase descended into cool, damp air that smelled of motor oil, ozone, and cold steel.
I walked down twenty steps, the sound of my low heels muffled by rubber mats lining the floor.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a subterranean chamber vast enough to house a commercial warehouse.
Rows of industrial fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, illuminating five armored SUVs and two vintage sports cars.
However, the center of the room was not designed for vehicles.
It was an advanced, private physical rehabilitation facility.
There were parallel bars, hydraulic resistance machines, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors lining the back wall.
In the center of the mat stood an elaborate steel harness suspended from an overhead ceiling track.
I moved closer, my footsteps cautious.
On a stainless steel table rested medical charts, MRI scans glowing on a backlit board, and bottles of heavy pain management medication.
I picked up the top file.
The medical documents were dated two years ago, following an incident on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
"Spinal trauma, incomplete severance of the T-11 vertebrae," the diagnosis read.
"Patient displays thirty percent neural response in lower extremities."
"Surgical intervention partial success."
"Mobility prognosis: indefinite confinement to wheelchair without intensive, high-risk physical therapy."
I read the lines again, my heart pounding against my ribs.
Incomplete severance.
Neural response.
That meant Cedric’s paralysis was not total.
He was not completely unable to move; he was fighting an agonizing, private war against his own broken body.
Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of deep, ragged breathing echoed from the far corner of the gym area.
I froze behind a stack of steel equipment racks.
Through the gaps in the metal shelves, I saw Cedric.
He was not in his wheelchair.
He was suspended within the overhead harness, his strong arms gripping two parallel balance bars.
He was drenched in sweat, his gray workout shirt clinging to the broad muscles of his back and shoulders.
His teeth were bared in a fierce grimace of sheer, unadulterated pain.
A physical therapist—an older, muscular man with a military buzzcut—stood a few feet away, holding a stopwatch.
"Two more steps, Cedric," the man commanded in a low, gravelly voice.
"Do not let the harness take your weight."
Cedric let out a low, guttural roar that sounded like a wounded beast refusing to surrender to death.
His right leg shook violently as he forced his foot forward against the rubber mat.
Veins bulged along his neck and forearms.
The effort was monstrous, requiring every ounce of will contained within his formidable mind.
He dragged his left foot forward, his heel striking the ground with a solid, trembling thud.
One step.
He paused, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto the floor.
"Again," the trainer barked.
"Push through the nerve firing."
Cedric took another agonizing step, his fingers turning white where they gripped the steel bars.
Then, his knee gave out.
The overhead harness caught him with a sharp jerk of nylon webbing, preventing him from crashing to the concrete.
Cedric hung there for several seconds, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
"That's enough for today," the trainer said, stepping forward to release the buckles.
"No," Cedric growled, his voice thick with agony and rage.
"Set the timer again."
"Cedric, your muscle tissue is tearing," the trainer insisted.
"You've been at this for three hours after hosting a council lunch."
"I said set the damn timer, Marco!" Cedric shouted, slamming his fist against the steel bar.
"Salvatore Leone was in my house today."
"He looked at me like I was a corpse waiting for a grave."
"I will walk into the council chamber on my own two feet before this winter ends, or I will die on this mat!"
I covered my mouth with both hands, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.
The ruthless, untouchable mafia boss was tearing himself apart in secret, refusing to let the world see his vulnerability.
Every ounce of cold arrogance he displayed upstairs was an elaborate shield to hide this grueling, desperate battle.
"Cedric, someone is here," Marco said suddenly, his posture stiffening as his eyes locked onto my shadow.
Before I could turn to run up the stairs, Marco drew a concealed Glock from his waistband.
"Come out from behind the rack," Marco commanded coldly.
"Hands where I can see them."
I stepped out into the harsh fluorescent light, trembling from head to toe.
"It's me," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Cedric lifted his head slowly.
When he saw me standing there, the fury in his dark eyes was terrifying.
It wasn't the cold violence he had shown Salvatore Leone.
It was the raw, humiliating rage of a proud king who had been caught naked and bleeding before his subject.
"Marco," Cedric gasped out, his voice hoarse.
"Get out."
"Sir, she breached security—"
"I said get out!" Cedric roared.
Marco hesitated for a fraction of a second, then lowered his weapon, unclipped Cedric from the harness into the waiting wheelchair, and walked past me toward the stairs.
The heavy steel door clanged shut at the top of the landing, leaving us alone in the subterranean silence.
Cedric sat in his chair, panting heavily, his hands gripping the armrests so hard the leather groaned.
"I told you," he hissed, his eyes boring into mine with lethal intensity.
"The underground is off-limits."
"I'm sorry," I whispered, unable to look away from the raw agony etched across his face.
"Get out, Analisa."
"Cedric, please—"
"I don't want your pity!" he snapped, his voice echoing violently off the concrete walls.
"You think because you saw me take two steps you know me?"
"You think you understand what it feels like to rule an empire while half your body is dead?"
I didn't run.
Instead, I took a slow step toward him, then another, until I was standing directly in front of his chair.
I knelt down on the hard rubber mat, bringing my eyes level with his.
"I don't pity you," I said softly, looking directly into the storm in his eyes.
"I have never seen anything more terrifyingly strong in my entire life."
Cedric stopped breathing.
The anger in his face fractured, replaced by an expression of profound shock.
No one had ever spoken to him like that.
For several long moments, the only sound was the distant hum of the ventilation system.
He reached out a trembling hand, his knuckles rough and calloused from the parallel bars, and lightly touched the side of my face.
His skin was burning hot against my cheek.
"You shouldn't be here, Anna," he murmured, using the shortened version of my name for the very first time.
"Because the closer you get to me, the more likely you are to burn."
May you like
"Then let me burn," I replied, leaning slightly into the touch of his hand.
"Just don't push me away into the dark."
