The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

Hua Jian

5.0
Comment(s)
172
View
15
Chapters

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

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 text from Austen.

The Family Doctor will be there in twenty minutes. This lesson was necessary for your growth, Alana. Discipline is the highest form of love.

Love.

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

He called locking me in wine cellars "love."

I sat up, fighting the nausea as the room spun on a tilted axis.

I cradled my ruined hand against my chest, shielding it like a broken bird, and forced myself to stand.

The house was tomb-silent.

Austen was at a meeting. The guards were patrolling the perimeter.

I wasn't supposed to leave the master suite, but the pain had clarified something in my mind.

It had burned away the fear, leaving only a cold, hard resolve.

I walked out of the suite, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet, moving like a ghost in my own home.

I went straight to Austen's private study.

The door was secured with a biometric keypad.

I punched in the code: 0824.

Joyce's birthday.

The lock clicked open with a submissive beep.

The humiliation of that code usually stung like a slap, but tonight, I felt nothing.

I slipped inside and approached his mahogany desk.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I knew the foundation of this marriage was built on rot.

I needed to see the blueprints.

I opened his laptop.

It was password protected, but I had watched him type it a thousand times from across the room.

Debt_Life_15.

I accessed the encrypted drive labeled The Incident.

Inside, there was a single audio file dated two weeks after the kidnapping, fifteen years ago.

I clicked play.

Austen's voice-younger, shakier, stripped of its current arrogance-filled the room.

"She pulled me from the crawlspace. The fire was everywhere. I couldn't breathe. Joyce dragged me out. She burned her arms for me. I owe her my life. My blood is her blood."

I froze.

The air vanished from my lungs.

I replayed the audio, needing to hear the lie again.

Joyce dragged me out.

Fifteen years ago, I was the one in that crawlspace.

I was the one who found the heir to the Ballard crime family bleeding out in the dark.

I was the one who hid him.

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

Joyce had been at a cheerleading camp three towns away.

She had stolen the story. She had stolen the credit.

And because of that lie, Austen treated her like a living saint and me like a punching bag.

He thought he was protecting his savior by punishing the jealous sister.

I looked down at my crushed hand.

My career as an architect, my designs, my sanity-all sacrificed on the altar of a lie.

I didn't feel angry.

I felt cold.

Ice cold.

I closed the laptop with a snap.

I wasn't a wife anymore.

I was a Consigliere planning a coup.

I went back to the bedroom and pulled a burner phone from the false bottom of my tampon box.

I dialed the number I had memorized from a heavy card stock slipped to me at a gala three years ago.

It rang twice.

"Speak," a deep voice answered, rough with sleep or violence.

Don Dalton Underwood.

Austen's sworn enemy.

"I have the blueprints," I said, my voice raspy but steady. "And I have the controlling shares of Ballard Industries."

Silence stretched on the other end, heavy and assessing.

"Who is this?"

"The woman who is going to help you burn Austen Ballard's kingdom to ash," I replied. "I want out. Tonight."

Continue Reading

Other books by Hua Jian

More
He Faked Death, I Married The Don

He Faked Death, I Married The Don

Mafia

5.0

I was arranging white lilies on the cold marble of my husband's grave when I saw a ghost. Walking through the cemetery gates was a man who looked exactly like my dead husband, Dante. Logic said it was his twin brother, Matteo. But a wife knows the slope of a man's shoulders. She knows the arrogant tilt of his chin. My husband hadn't been blown up in a car bomb three years ago. He had faked his death to steal his brother's rank, his fortune, and his mistress. For three years, I had forced our son, Leo, to kiss a photograph goodnight. We lived in a damp, peeling apartment, surviving on the "charity" of the Family. Meanwhile, Dante was living in a mansion, driving cars that cost more than my life, playing house with another woman. When he came to our cramped apartment to drop off the monthly "pension" money, pretending to be Uncle Matteo, he didn't look at me with love. He looked at his watch. When Leo ran to hug him, shouting "Papa," Dante peeled the boy's small arms off his expensive suit like he was removing a piece of lint. "Don't call me that," he snapped. "I am your Uncle." My grief turned into ice. He chose another woman's comfort over his own son's hunger. I grabbed Leo's hand and walked out the door. "You walk away, and you get nothing!" Dante shouted after me. "You'll be on the street!" I didn't stop. I walked straight to the black SUV idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing Salvatore Vitiello. The Don. The most lethal man in the city. "Get in, Elena," he commanded. I opened the door and slid onto the leather seat next to the devil himself. As we drove away, leaving my husband in the dust, I realized I had just traded a liar for a killer. And I didn't regret it for a second.

The Roommate Pact: No Strings Attached

The Roommate Pact: No Strings Attached

Romance

5.0

Brendon Hampton was known across Manhattan as the ultimate "Simp," a wealthy tag-along who allowed shallow socialites to treat him like high-end furniture just to drown out the ghost of his past. For months, he played the part of a human ATM for Gloria Talley, paying for five-star dinners at Le Coucou while she ignored his existence to edit her Instagram photos. He was a man hiding behind a mask of performative degradation, using the shallow noise of the elite to bury the memory of the only girl he had ever truly loved. The mask finally shattered during a three-hundred-dollar dinner when Brendon realized he couldn't play the fool for one more second. He left Gloria with a massive bill, blocked her on every platform, and moved into a luxury off-campus apartment to start over. But when he opened the door to Unit 4B, the air turned to lead. Standing in the living room was Kiera Richards—the girl he had ghosted a year ago during his father’s high-profile SEC scandal, and the one person he was never supposed to see again. The reunion was a nightmare of cold stares and jagged silence. Kiera wasn't the laughing girl he remembered; she was a hollowed-out version of herself, an "Ice Queen" who looked at him with pure loathing. Because of a university housing glitch and a twelve-thousand-dollar lease penalty, they were trapped together in a four-wall cage. Kiera dropped a bombshell that leveled him: his disappearance hadn't just broken her heart; it had caused a mental breakdown that cost her a spot at Juilliard and her entire career as a violinist. Brendon had to endure her hatred every day, unable to explain that his "betrayal" involved federal agents seizing his phone and his father suffering a heart attack. He was forced to watch her move through the apartment like a stranger, adhering to a strict pact of silence and secrecy. She treated him like a biohazard, demanding he stay on his side of the room and never speak her name. He was the villain in her story, and the weight of her trauma was a penance he didn't think he could survive. "We do not talk. Ever," she had warned him, her voice trembling with a year's worth of unvented rage. Everything changed during a violent Manhattan storm that plunged the apartment into total darkness. As the thunder shook the windows, the "Ice Queen" mask finally cracked, and Kiera collapsed into his arms, terrified of the dark. In the shadows, Brendon realized the pact was a lie. Despite her accusations and the year of silence, she was still wearing the silver necklace he’d given her for her eighteenth birthday. The war wasn't over, but as he held her in the blackout, Brendon knew he wasn't just a roommate anymore—he was a man who would do anything to earn back the soul he had destroyed.

You'll also like

THE SPITEFUL BRIDE: MARRY TO RIVAL'S SON

THE SPITEFUL BRIDE: MARRY TO RIVAL'S SON

Ray Nhedicta
4.7

"Let's get married," Mia declares, her voice trembling despite her defiant gaze into Stefan's guarded brown eyes. She needs this, even if he seems untouchable. Stefan raises a skeptical brow. "And why would I do that?" His voice was low, like a warning, and it made her shiver even though she tried not to show it. "We both have one thing in common," Mia continues, her gaze unwavering. "Shitty fathers. They want to take what's ours and give it to who they think deserves it." A pointed pause hangs in the air. "The only difference between us is that you're an illegitimate child, and I'm not." Stefan studies her, the heiress in her designer armor, the fire in her eyes that matches the burn of his own rage. "That's your solution? A wedding band as a weapon?" He said ignoring the part where she just referred to him as an illegitimate child. "The only weapon they won't see coming." She steps closer, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, gunpowder and jasmine. "Our fathers stole our birthrights. The sole reason they betrayed us. We join forces, create our own empire that'll bring down theirs." A beat of silence. Then, Stefan's mouth curves into something sharp. "One condition," he murmurs, closing the distance. "No divorces. No surrenders. If we're doing this, it's for life" "Deal" Mia said without missing a beat. Her father wants to destroy her life. She wouldn't give him the pleasure, she would destroy her life as she seems fit. ................ Two shattered heirs. One deadly vow. A marriage built on revenge. Mia Meyers was born to rule her father's empire (so she thought), until he named his bastard son heir instead. Stefan Sterling knows the sting of betrayal too. His father discarded him like trash. Now the rivals' disgraced children have a poisonous proposal: Marry for vengeance. Crush their fathers' legacies. Never speak of divorce. Whoever cracks first loses everything. Can these two rivals, united by their vengeful hearts, pull off a marriage of convenience to reclaim what they believe is rightfully theirs? Or will their fathers' animosity, and their own complicated pasts tear their fragile alliance apart?

Secret Baby: The Jilted Wife's Final Goodbye

Secret Baby: The Jilted Wife's Final Goodbye

Cait
5.0

I sat on the cold tile floor of our Upper East Side penthouse, staring at the two pink lines until my vision blurred. After ten years of loving Julian Sterling and three years of a hollow marriage, I finally had the one thing that could bridge the distance between us. I was pregnant. But Julian didn't come home with flowers for our anniversary. He tossed a thick manila envelope onto the marble coffee table with a heavy thud. Fiona, the woman he'd truly loved for years, was back in New York, and he told me our "business deal" was officially over. "Sign it," He said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He looked at me with the cold detachment of a man selling a piece of unwanted furniture. When I hesitated, he told me to add a zero to the alimony if the money wasn't enough. I realized in that moment that if he knew about the baby, he wouldn't love me; he would simply take my child and give it to Fiona to raise. I shoved the pregnancy test into my pocket, signed the papers with a shaking hand, and lied through my teeth. When my morning sickness hit, I slumped to the floor to hide the truth. "It's just cramps," I gasped, watching him recoil as if I were contagious. To make him stay away, I invented a man named Jack-a fake boyfriend who supposedly gave me the kindness Julian never could. Suddenly, the man who wanted me gone became a monster of possessiveness. He threatened to "bury" a man who didn't exist while leaving me humiliated at his family's dinner to rush to Fiona's side. I was so broken that I even ate a cake I was deathly allergic to, then had to refuse life-saving steroids at the hospital because they would harm the fetus. Julian thinks he's stalling the divorce for two months to protect the family's reputation for his father's Jubilee. He thinks he's keeping his "property" on a short leash until the press dies down. He has no idea I'm using those sixty days to build a fortress for my child. By the time he realizes the truth, I'll be gone, and the Sterling heir will be far beyond his reach.

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book