The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

Alana POV

Consciousness returned to the shrill, rising pitch of a mechanical whine.

Darkness pressed heavy against my eyelids.

The acrid smell of rust and bleach filled my lungs.

The Panic Room.

I tried to move, but leather straps bound my wrists and ankles to a metal chair with unyielding force.

My crushed hand was strapped flat to a cold steel table.

A spotlight clicked on, blinding me instantly.

Austen stood just beyond the halo of light, operating a remote control.

"Punishment Ninety-Seven," his voice echoed off the damp concrete walls. "Attempted harm of a protected asset."

"I didn't touch her," I rasped, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Objective truth is irrelevant," Austen said calmly. "Perception is reality. Joyce feels threatened. Therefore, you are a threat."

The mechanical whine climbed to an ear-splitting frequency.

A small, industrial drill descended from the ceiling.

It hovered inches above my index finger.

The one he had already broken.

"Please," I whispered. Not for mercy, but for the sheer absurdity of it.

"Don't worry," he said. "The doctor is on standby."

The drill descended.

Metal met bone.

I screamed until my throat tore.

The world dissolved into white, then black.

When I surfaced again, I was in the estate's private infirmary.

The rhythmic beeping of monitors greeted me.

My hand was a heavy mass of bandages.

I could hear voices on the other side of the privacy curtain.

"The serum is experimental, Sir," the doctor was saying, his tone hesitant. "We only have one dose. It accelerates bone regeneration by 400 percent. Mrs. Ballard's hand could be saved."

"Give it to Joyce," Austen's voice was flat.

"But Sir... Miss Cummings only has a scratch."

"She is distressed. The scratch might scar. She needs to be perfect. Give her the serum."

"And Mrs. Ballard?"

"Give her Tylenol."

Rage is a quiet thing when you have nothing left to lose.

The curtain was pulled back.

Austen walked in.

He looked tired.

He pulled a chair up to my bed and sat down.

He took a switchblade from his pocket.

He flicked it open and sliced a shallow line across his own palm.

Blood welled up.

"I bleed with you, Alana," he said, his eyes burning with a feverish, delusional intensity. "We share this pain. It binds us."

It was a performance.

A sick ritual to make himself feel like a martyr instead of a monster.

"You're insane," I whispered.

He smiled, sad and soft.

"I am a man of honor. I protect those who save me."

From the hallway, I heard Joyce's voice.

"Austen? Baby? I'm scared. Come hold me."

Austen stood up immediately.

"I have to go," he said. "Rest."

He walked to the door.

I saw Joyce waiting there.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

He didn't pull away.

He kissed her back, his hand-the bleeding one-resting on her waist.

He was paying his "debt" with his body.

I looked at my good hand.

The diamond wedding ring glittered under the sterile fluorescent lights.

Five carats of flawless oppression.

I gritted my teeth.

I gripped the band.

It was tight, but I yanked.

Skin tore.

I didn't care.

It slid off, heavy and cold.

There was a red biohazard bin next to the bed for used needles and bloody gauze.

I dropped the ring into it.

Clunk.

It belonged in the trash.

Just like him.