The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

My husband crushed the metacarpals of my left hand—my drawing hand—with a heavy leather-bound book.

This was Punishment Ninety-Six.

The offense? I had missed a single phone call from my stepsister, Joyce.

According to Don Austen Ballard, ignoring the woman who allegedly saved his life fifteen years ago was akin to high treason.

"Discipline is the highest form of love, Alana," he whispered, watching the violet bruise spread across my skin.

He calls shattering an architect's hand "love."

He believes Joyce dragged him from a burning building when he was a boy. He treats her like a living saint and me like a punching bag to pay his life debt.

But it is all a lie.

Fifteen years ago, Joyce was at a cheerleading camp three towns away.

I was the one in that crawlspace.

I was the one who found the bleeding boy in the dark.

I was the one who called him "Stellen" because he was too terrified to tell me his real name.

He has spent our entire marriage torturing his true savior to please a fraud.

Tonight, the pain finally burned away my fear, leaving only cold resolve.

I didn't cry.

I waited until the house was silent, then I retrieved a burner phone hidden in a false bottom of a box in the bathroom.

I dialed the number of his sworn enemy, Don Dalton Underwood.

"I have the blueprints," I said, my voice steady despite the agony in my hand. "And I have the controlling shares of Ballard Industries. I'm ready to burn his kingdom to ash."

Chapter 1

Alana POV

The moment my husband crushed the metacarpals of my left hand with a leather-bound edition of Dante's Inferno, I realized that saving his life fifteen years ago was the sin I was finally paying for.

Pain is a cruel architect.

It builds walls where doors used to be, sealing you inside your own suffering.

I lay sprawled on the cold Carrara marble of the master bathroom, the grout digging into my cheek like dull teeth.

My left hand-my drawing hand-throbbed with a violent rhythm that synced perfectly with my racing heart.

A grotesque bloom of violet and black was already spreading beneath the skin.

This was Punishment Ninety-Six.

The offense?

I had missed a single phone call from my stepsister, Joyce.

According to Don Austen Ballard, ignoring the woman who allegedly saved his life was akin to high treason against the Crown.

I tried to flex my fingers, but agony shot up my arm-hot, blinding, and absolute.

I didn't cry.

I had stopped crying somewhere around Punishment Forty.

My phone vibrated on the bathmat, inches from my nose, buzzing like an angry insect.

A photo message from Joyce lit up the screen.

She was holding a crystal flute of champagne, her smile wide, predatory, and untouched.

The caption read: Another victory. The Don favors loyalty above all, sister.

I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred into a meaningless haze.

Then came a