Chapter 5 - Sebastian Took His First Step in Twenty Years
The next morning, I began a more aggressive therapy program.
Sebastian hated it.
His muscles were weak.
His balance was worse.
Pain traveled down both legs.
But for the first time, we had evidence that recovery was possible.
We worked six hours a day.
Standing frames.
Resistance bands.
Parallel bars.
Weight transfer.
Neural stimulation.
I made him repeat movements until exhaustion.
“Again.”
“I am.”
“Again.”
“You enjoy this too much.”
“I enjoy proving you wrong.”
He laughed.
“You're a terrible therapist.”
“I'm effective.”
He tried again.
His right knee shook.
“Don't lock it.”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Trust me.”
He did.
His knee stabilized.
He took a breath.
Then another.
And stood.
Not for long.
Two seconds.
Then three.
I stared.
Sebastian stared.
Neither moved.
He looked at his feet.
“They're holding me.”
“Yes.”
He laughed.
Then cried.
One tear.
Only one.
He quickly wiped it away.
I pretended not to see.
“Again tomorrow.”
He nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
Our therapy sessions became something else.
We talked.
He told me about his mother.
His childhood.
The first time he realized people were afraid of his family.
I told him about Oliver.
About divorce.
About the night I almost gave up on physical therapy.
He listened.
Sometimes he argued.
Sometimes I argued harder.
One evening, after a particularly difficult session, he asked:
“Why did you stay?”
I looked at him.
“Where?”
“With me.”
“I could leave.”
“Yes.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I want to know.”
I smiled.
“Because your legs are still talking.”
He looked amused.
“That's your reason?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
I hesitated.
“You.”
He looked at me.
“I think there's a man underneath all this reputation who has been trapped for twenty years too.”
He said nothing.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
Neither could I.
The next morning, we got a call.
Gabriel wanted to negotiate.
He would exchange information for protection.
Sebastian agreed.
The meeting was held at an old train station.
Gabriel arrived alone.
He looked exhausted.
“You should kill me.”
Sebastian stared.
“Maybe.”
“I knew about the surgery.”
“I know.”
“I helped your father.”
“I know.”
“I helped Rafael.”
“I know.”
Gabriel's face crumpled.
“I thought I was protecting the organization.”
“You destroyed my life.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your father believed you couldn't rule.”
“And Rafael?”
“He believed he could control you through your disability.”
Sebastian looked at me.
Gabriel continued.
“Rafael has been laundering money through medical suppliers for years.”
The stolen medications.
The hospital contracts.
Everything was connected.
“Why does he want Claire?”
“Because the ledger contains proof.”
“Why hasn't he killed her already?”
Gabriel looked at me.
“Because he doesn't know where the original copy is.”
I stared.
“He thinks you do.”
“I do.”
Sebastian looked at me.
“Where?”
I shook my head.
“I don't know.”
Gabriel's expression changed.
“You do.”
I realized.
The microfilm was not complete.
There was one more piece.
My mother had split the evidence.
One part hidden in the music box.
Another somewhere else.
Gabriel said:
“Rafael knows you're the key.”
Then a gunshot came from the far platform.
Gabriel fell.
Sebastian moved.
Not with his chair.
With his legs.
He took one step.
Then another.
He staggered.
I grabbed him.
He looked down.
He had walked.
Two steps.
Maybe three.
For twenty years, the most dangerous man in Chicago had been unable to stand.
Now he was standing in the middle of an abandoned station while gunmen fired toward us.
He pulled me behind him.
“Stay down.”
“Your leg.”
“I know.”
He held the weapon with one hand.
The other steadied itself against the wall.
Police sirens approached.
The shooters fled.
Gabriel died before the ambulance arrived.
His final words were:
“Rafael is going after Oliver next.”
My blood froze.
Sebastian looked at me.
Then at Gabriel.
Then at the road outside.
“We go now.”
We rushed back to the city.
Oliver was at school.
The building had security.
But one car had been parked outside.
A black sedan.
Unknown plates.
We arrived before pickup.
Oliver ran toward me.
“Mom!”
I hugged him.
He looked at Sebastian.
“Is that the man from your clinic?”
I froze.
“How does he know?”
Oliver pointed.
“I've seen his picture.”
Sebastian looked at me.
Then at the school.
Someone had shown my son his face.
We moved him to safety.
That night, Sebastian stayed outside his bedroom door.
Not as a crime boss.
As a guard.
I found him there at 2 a.m.
“You don't have to.”
“Yes.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I'm learning.”
He looked through the doorway.
Oliver slept.
“I know what it means when everyone around you is helpless.”
I sat beside him.
“You aren't helpless anymore.”
He smiled.
“Neither are you.”
For the first time, I realized something.
Sebastian's recovery wasn't only physical.
He was learning to trust.
I was learning to accept help.
And Oliver was learning that the world could contain men who looked frightening but kept watch outside your bedroom door because they wanted you safe.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
The original evidence is under the place where Helena first met Marco.
I knew the location.
A church.
South Side.
My mother had taken me there once.
May you like
I had never understood why.
Now we did.
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