Chapter 4 - The Crucible of Pain
The next two months were a descent into hell.
Dr. Harrison, a specialist brought in from Boston, transformed the mansion’s sunroom into a brutal rehabilitation center. Parallel bars, resistance cables, and electro-stimulation machines filled the glass space.
Every morning at dawn, Salvatore’s screams echoed through the cold hallways.
The nerve regeneration therapy was excruciating. It felt like hot needles being driven repeatedly into his lower spine and thighs. Hours were spent struggling just to twitch a toe, to bear a fraction of his weight on the parallel bars, his arms shaking violently, sweat pouring off his face, his scar flushed red.
Nadia couldn't bear to watch. She would stand outside the sunroom doors, holding her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face.
Milo, however, never left.
The four-year-old boy would sit on a small wooden stool at the edge of the mat, holding his wooden soldier. Whenever Salvatore collapsed back into his wheelchair, gasping for air, trembling from sheer nerve exhaustion and agony, Milo would walk over and hand him a glass of water.
He didn't offer pity. He offered solidarity.
“Again,” Salvatore would wheeze through bloodied lips, having bitten his lip to refrain from screaming. “Set... set the bars again.”
“Mr. Ferraro,” Dr. Harrison warned, wiping his forehead. “Your blood pressure is through the roof. If you push any harder today, you risk a stroke.”
“I said AGAIN!” Salvatore roared.
By mid-February, the impossible happened.
During an intense session, with Milo watching intently, Salvatore locked his hands onto the steel parallel bars. He gritted his teeth, his neck veins bulging, his entire core shaking with unfathomable effort.
Slowly. Half an inch at a time.
His knees locked.
His feet pressed into the rubber mat.
Salvatore Ferraro stood up.
He didn't stay up for long—three seconds before his legs gave out and he crashed into the safety harness—but he had stood.
Dr. Harrison was speechless. “It’s a miracle... the nerve pathways are reconnecting.”
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Salvatore lay on the mat, breathing heavily, looking up at the glass ceiling. Milo ran over, dropped to his knees, and placed the wooden soldier directly onto Salvatore’s chest.
Salvatore reached up, his large, calloused hand enveloping the child’s small shoulder. “We’re coming for them, kid,” Salvatore whispered, his gray eyes burning with lethal intent. “We’re coming for the men who took your father.”
