Chapter 3 - Someone Had Chosen for Sebastian to Remain Paralyzed
For twenty years, Sebastian had believed his wheelchair was the result of one tragic night.
Now we had proof someone had maintained his paralysis.
Not caused it.
Maintained it.
The question was why.
Sebastian tore through his father's old records.
We found Dr. Victor Hale living outside Chicago under another name.
A retired surgeon.
His house had no security.
No bodyguards.
No cameras.
That made it suspicious.
When we arrived, the front door was open.
Inside, the house was empty.
On the kitchen table was a photograph.
Sebastian as a child.
His father standing behind him.
And a woman beside them.
I recognized her.
My mother.
I stopped breathing.
Sebastian noticed.
“Who is that?”
“My mother.”
He stared.
“Why is she in this photograph?”
I had no answer.
My mother had died when I was ten.
She had never mentioned the Lombardi family.
At least not that I remembered.
There was another photograph.
My mother working inside a hospital.
And behind her stood Dr. Hale.
I felt dizzy.
Sebastian turned toward the hallway.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Look.”
A door had been left open.
Inside was an old medical office.
Records covered the shelves.
He found a patient file.
Mine.
No.
Oliver's.
I grabbed it.
It contained his entire medical history.
But the final page was recent.
A note from someone monitoring his respiratory condition.
Patient remains useful leverage against C.B.
I nearly dropped it.
Sebastian saw it.
His face became terrifying.
“They've been tracking your son.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He looked at the file.
“They've been tracking him through the hospital.”
That explained the medication.
The pharmacy.
The calls.
Everything.
Someone had been watching Claire because of her mother.
Not because of Sebastian.
Because her family was connected to the old conspiracy.
A noise came from upstairs.
Sebastian drew his weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I'm aware.”
They entered the room.
A man rushed through the window.
Sebastian fired.
The man escaped into the yard.
On the floor was a folded piece of paper.
I picked it up.
Three words.
Ask about Helena.
I stared.
“Helena.”
Sebastian looked at me.
“Who's Helena?”
“My mother.”
We returned to the mansion.
For the first time, I asked my grandmother what she knew.
She lived in a small apartment in Oak Park.
When I showed her the photographs, she began crying.
“I prayed you would never find out.”
“Find out what?”
“Your mother worked for the Lombardis.”
I sat.
“She was their medical administrator.”
Sebastian's expression remained controlled.
“Why?”
“She believed she could help people.”
My grandmother looked at me.
“She was wrong.”
I asked:
“What happened?”
“Your mother discovered that Marco Lombardi's criminal operations were being used to control medical suppliers.”
Sebastian listened.
“Bribes.”
“Yes.”
“Medication shortages.”
“Yes.”
“Doctors paid to falsify records.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the photograph.
“My mother tried to expose them.”
“She tried.”
“What happened?”
“Marco found out.”
Sebastian's jaw tightened.
“Did my father kill her?”
Grandmother shook her head.
“No.”
I looked at Sebastian.
“Then who?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Your mother was killed because she found out what happened to Sebastian.”
He went still.
“What?”
“She discovered the paralysis was intentional.”
The room became silent.
I asked:
“She knew about the surgery?”
“She was the one who found the records.”
Sebastian stood.
“My father?”
Grandmother nodded.
“He ordered the procedure.”
Sebastian turned away.
For the first time, I saw him broken.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
He had spent twenty years respecting a dead man who had intentionally imprisoned him inside his own body.
My grandmother continued.
“Helena stole the records.”
“Where?”
“She never told me.”
“What happened to them?”
“She said she would give them to someone she trusted.”
“Who?”
My grandmother looked at me.
“You.”
I stared.
“I was ten.”
“Your mother thought no one would look for them in your room.”
I remembered a wooden box.
A blue one.
My mother had kept it beside my bed.
I had been forbidden to open it.
I had never understood why.
Sebastian drove me to my grandmother's storage unit.
Inside were my mother's belongings.
The blue box was there.
Locked.
The key had been in my childhood jewelry box for twenty years.
I opened it.
Inside was a cassette.
A small notebook.
And a photograph of Helena holding me.
I pressed the cassette into an old player.
My mother's voice filled the room.
“Claire, if you're listening to this, then I am gone.”
I closed my eyes.
“I need you to know something.”
Her voice trembled.
“Sebastian did not lose the ability to walk because of the bombing.”
Sebastian's hand tightened around the chair.
“He was operated on afterward.”
“Why?”
“Because Marco believed his son could be controlled if he depended on others.”
I looked at Sebastian.
My mother continued.
“Your father's greatest fear was that Sebastian would leave the family.”
The tape crackled.
“So he made certain Sebastian couldn't.”
Sebastian whispered:
“My father did this.”
“Yes.”
The tape continued.
“But Marco did not act alone.”
Another pause.
“Someone in the Lombardi organization helped him.”
Then my mother spoke the name.
“Gabriel.”
I stopped the tape.
Sebastian stared at me.
Gabriel.
The man who had brought me to the mansion.
The man who had helped Sebastian manage everything for years.
His oldest confidant.
His friend.
His protector.
I replayed the final seconds.
Gabriel.
Sebastian closed his eyes.
“Impossible.”
I looked at him.
“Is it?”
“He's known me since I was a child.”
“He may have.”
“He saved my life.”
“Or kept you alive.”
His eyes opened.
The implication hung between us.
If Gabriel had known about the surgery, he had known Sebastian could have walked.
For twenty years.
I asked:
“Why would he keep you in that chair?”
Sebastian stared at the tape.
Then said:
May you like
“Because someone benefits from me staying there.”
That answer led us directly into the heart of Chicago's power structure.
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