The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

Alana POV

"I don't do charity, Mrs. Ballard." Dalton's voice was low and smooth, like whiskey poured over a rusted razor blade.

"This isn't charity," I whispered, pressing the burner phone to my ear with my good shoulder, hissing as the movement pulled at my injuries. "It's a hostile takeover."

"You're offering me the keys to the kingdom."

"I'm offering you the throat of the man who killed your brother."

A pause stretched between us.

Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

"Extraction is at 0200 hours," he finally said. "The garden gate. If you aren't there, I leave. And I don't look back."

"I'll be there."

I hung up and immediately destroyed the SIM card, flushing the pieces down the toilet.

I had four hours.

I moved with the cold efficiency of a machine.

I went to the wall safe hidden behind the Monet print.

I knew the combination not because he told me, but because I designed the installation.

Inside lay the kingdom: the bearer bonds, the deeds, and the stock certificates.

I took the documents that gave Austen legal control over his legitimate construction empire.

I replaced them with high-quality forgeries I had printed weeks ago, waiting for a moment just like this.

Then, I took a stack of legitimate business contracts Austen needed to sign tonight.

With trembling fingers, I slid the divorce settlement and the asset transfer agreement into the middle of the pile.

The sound of the front door unlatching echoed downstairs.

Austen was home.

I scrambled into bed, my heart hammering against my ribs as I pulled the duvet up to my chin.

My hand was wrapped in a heavy brace the doctor had applied only an hour ago.

Austen walked in.

He smelled of stale cigar smoke and expensive, cloying cologne.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He looked at my hand, then at my face.

His eyes were soft.

It was the look that terrified me the most. It was the look of a man who believed he owned me.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"Yes," I lied.

It hurt like hell, but the adrenaline was masking the worst of it.

"Good." He stroked my hair, his touch possessive. "Pain reminds us of our place. I brought the contracts for the seaport deal. I need to sign them before I sleep."

"I can help you sort them," I said, forcing my voice to tremble just enough to sound broken. "Please, Austen. Let me be useful."

He smiled.

"That's my good girl."

He placed the stack on the nightstand.

I sat up, feigning weakness, leaning heavily against the headboard.

I handed him the papers one by one.

He signed the first three without reading.

He didn't even glance at the fine print.

He was arrogant.

He thought he had broken me completely.

He thought I was too stupid, too scared to pull a move like this.

I handed him the asset transfer.

"This is the supplemental insurance rider," I murmured, keeping my eyes lowered.

He signed it.

He signed away fifty-one percent of his company.

I handed him the divorce papers.

"Liability waiver for the new site."

He signed it.

He signed away his marriage.

I held my breath as he capped his pen.

"Done," he said.

"I'll file these for you in the morning," I said, reaching for the stack as if they were holy scripture.

The door banged open.

Joyce stood there.

She was wearing a silk robe that cost more than my father's entire house.

"Austen!" she whined. "She attacked me!"

She held up her arm.

There was a thin, superficial scratch on her forearm.

Fresh blood welled on the surface.

She held a letter opener in her other hand.

"She came at me with this!" Joyce screamed, her face twisted in theatrical horror. "She's crazy, Austen! She's jealous because you love me more!"

I stared at her.

I hadn't left the bed since the doctor left.

Austen stood up.

He looked at Joyce, then back at me.

"She can barely stand, Joyce," Austen said quietly, his voice devoid of warmth. "Her hand is crushed."

Joyce faltered.

"She... she used her other hand! She's a monster!"

Austen turned to me.

For a second, I saw clarity in his eyes. Not love. Not trust. Just cold, mathematical calculation.

"I believe you, Alana," he said.

My heart skipped a beat.

Was he finally seeing the truth?

"You couldn't have attacked her," he continued, walking toward me. "Because you know the consequences would be death."

He sat back down on the bed.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear.

"But Joyce is upset. And when the savior is upset, the debt must be paid."

He snapped his fingers.

Two guards entered the room, silent as shadows.

One held a rag soaked in chloroform.

"Sleep now, my little architect," Austen whispered, kissing my forehead. "We have work to do later."

The rag covered my face.

The chemical sting filled my nose, burning my lungs.

The last thing I saw was Joyce's smirk fading into the darkness.