Chapter 9 - The Trial on the Floor
Roman looked down at the dark blue vinyl beneath his shoes.
To lie down on the floor of a South Side warehouse, in an expensive three-piece English suit, before the eyes of his security chief and his deceased brother's son, was an act of profound, terrifying submission. In Roman's universe, men who ended up on the floor did not get back up; they were photographed by homicide detectives or dragged into the trunks of sedans.
"Roman," Gia said, her brown eyes unwavering, offering neither pity nor judgment. "Pride is a corpse's luxury. Noah needs an uncle who can walk. Down on your back. Now."
For three seconds, the fate of the DeLuca family hung in the balance of a man's pride.
Then, with a slow, shuddering exhale that sounded like air escaping a crushed lung, Roman nodded once.
Gia moved with surgical efficiency. "Victor! Help him down. Slowly. Under the shoulders. Do not let his spine rotate."
Victor sprang forward, discarding his tactical posture entirely, dropping to his knees beside the boss he had protected for a decade. Together, using their arms as human struts, they eased Roman’s massive, trembling frame backward until his shoulder blades settled flat against the cushioned foam of the competition mat.
The moment his spine made contact with the floor, Roman let out a long, ragged groan that rattled the empty warehouse. His eyes rolled back toward the high halogen rafters, his hands opening and closing on empty air as the nerves in his lumbar spine flared in white-hot protest.
"Noah, stay by the bench," Gia instructed quietly, not turning around.
The boy nodded mutely, remaining frozen ten yards away, watching with a mixture of terror and reverence as the woman in the gray sweatshirt took command of the most dangerous predator in Chicago.
Gia knelt at Roman’s feet. She did not hesitate. She reached out and took hold of his left leg, lifting his ankle with her right hand while cradling the underside of his knee with her left.
"What are you doing?" Victor growled, his face inches from Gia’s, his jaw clenched tight.
"Traction," Gia said coldly. "The L5 facet is jammed shut like a rusty gate. If I don't open the joint space, the femoral nerve will stay ischemic, and his quadriceps will atrophy before the weekend."
She looked down at Roman’s sweating, agonized face.
"Roman, breathe out through your mouth," Gia commanded. "Long and slow. When I tell you, let your left hip go completely dead. Do not fight me. If you fight me, your hamstrings will pull the pelvis out of alignment."
Roman closed his eyes, his chest rising beneath the charcoal vest, then falling in a long, shuddering hiss of air.
Gia shifted her weight. She stood, stepped back, and tucked Roman’s left heel firmly against her right hip, locking his ankle beneath her forearm. She leaned her entire body weight backward, utilizing the exact same athletic leverage she had just taught Noah.
She didn't yank. She didn't jerk. She applied a steady, increasing, axial traction along the line of his femur, pulling the leg straight out from the hip socket.
For five seconds, nothing happened save for the hum of the warehouse heaters.
Then, deep within the pelvic basin of Roman DeLuca’s body, a muffled, hollow sound broke through the quiet—a distinct, fluid thump-click as the compressed L5-S1 joint space widened by three millimeters, releasing the trapped nerve root from the bony vice of the facet.
Roman’s entire body went limp.
His hands fell flat against the blue mat. His head rolled to the side, his mouth falling open as he drew a massive, shuddering gasp of air deep into the very bottom of his lungs—the first breath entirely free of neuropathic agony he had taken in six long months.
The gray color drained from his face, replaced by a rush of warm, natural blood. The agonizing tension that had held his jaw in a vice relaxed, his facial features smoothing out into the handsome, weathered countenance of an athletic man in his late forties.
Victor Lane stared at his boss, his mouth slightly open, completely stunned.
Gia held the traction for another thirty seconds, her split-sole wrestling shoes anchored into the vinyl, before slowly, gently lowering Roman’s heel back down to the surface of the mat.
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She wiped a strand of brunette hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, looking down at the giant lying at her feet.
"How does the leg feel, Mr. DeLuca?" Gia asked quietly.
