Healed By Another: Rejecting The Ruthless Don

I spent a year in a Swiss asylum, swallowing pills to cure a madness that didn’t exist. It turned out the medication was just sugar. My insanity was a script written by Jaxon Francis, the Don of New York, just so he could marry a Cartel princess without his ward getting in the way. When I finally escaped and tried to leave him, his new wife staged her own kidnapping and framed me. Jaxon didn’t ask for proof. He didn’t look at the evidence. Instead, he tied a rope around my ankles and dragged me behind a helicopter across the jagged rocks of the Wastelands. He held his wife close and watched as my skin was flayed and my bones shattered, believing he was executing a traitor. He left me for dead in the dirt, convinced he had cleansed his empire. I took the hush money his mother threw at me and vanished, letting Alina Phillips die in that field. Three years later, I returned to New York as "Echo," the elusive artist the world was obsessing over. At a charity auction, Jaxon bid one hundred million dollars for a painting of a woman’s scarred back, desperate to buy redemption for the ghost he thought he killed. He chased me into the rain, begging for a second chance, swearing he had destroyed his wife for me. I looked at the man who once held my heart and simply smiled. Then I turned to the man standing beside me. "Jaxon, meet Darwin," I said, linking my arm through his. "My husband." Chapter 1 Alina Phillips POV I stood at the wrought-iron gates of the Swiss asylum, my fingers turning white as I clutched the discharge papers. I had been ready to fly home. I had been ready to surprise the Don who had promised to protect me. Instead, the bitter alpine wind slapped my face with the truth: the medication I had swallowed dutifully for a year was nothing but sugar. My insanity had been a script. And the author was the man I worshipped. The receptionist had looked at me with a professional sort of pity before slipping the real medical file into my hand. "You've been sane since the day you arrived, Miss," she had whispered, as if fearing the walls were listening. My hands trembled as I boarded the plane to New York. I wasn't shaking from the cold. I was shaking because the man who swore on my father's fresh grave to keep me safe had locked me away to steal a year of my existence. Jaxon Francis. The Don of the Francis Crime Family. The King of New York. He was the man who had held me while my father bled out on Italian marble, taking a bullet meant for the King. He was the man who had wiped the splatter from my cheeks and told me I was his responsibility now. God help me, I had believed him. I landed at JFK and went straight to The Sanctum. It was Jaxon's private fortress of glass and steel, a place where the city's darkest deals were sealed over scotch that cost more than an average man's life. The bouncers knew my face. They looked shocked to see the ghost of the Don's ward, but they didn't dare stop me. I was the broken canary he was nursing back to health. Or so everyone thought. I bypassed the main floor, slipping like a shadow into the service elevator that led to the VIP balcony. The thrum of heavy bass vibrated through the soles of my shoes, masking the sound of my approach. Then, I saw him. Jaxon sat on a crushed velvet sofa, looking like a god of war resting between conquests. His dark suit was cut sharp against broad shoulders. He held a glass of amber liquid, his eyes scanning the room with that predator's gaze I used to find comforting. Now, it just looked cold. His Capos surrounded him, laughing amidst the smoke. "The merger is solid, Boss," one of them said, leaning in. "The Gomez territory is fully integrated." Jaxon took a slow sip of his drink. "It cost enough," he said. His voice was a low rumble that used to make my stomach flip. "Stashing the girl in the Alps wasn't cheap," the Capo chuckled. "But it bought you a quiet year to settle the marriage." I froze. My breath hitched, trapped in a throat suddenly too tight to swallow. Marriage. "Krystal is demanding," Jaxon said, swirling the ice in his glass, looking bored. "But her father's distribution routes are worth the headache. Alina would have been a distraction." Distraction. I wasn't a person to him. I wasn't the daughter of his most loyal soldier. I was a loose end. "Does she know yet?" the Capo asked. "About Mrs. Francis?" "Alina thinks she's sick," Jaxon drawled, his tone devoid of emotion. "She thinks she needs the clinic. As long as she takes her vitamins, she'll stay right where I put her." Vitamins. The bottle in my purse felt heavy as lead. He knew. He had orchestrated every moment of my terror. He made me question my own mind, made me believe I was broken, just so he could marry a Cartel princess without his ward getting in the way. I backed away slowly. My spine hit something solid. I spun around. Mrs. Francis stood there. The Matriarch. Jaxon's mother looked at me with eyes like polished river stones. She didn't look surprised; she looked prepared. She reached into her quilted Chanel bag and pulled out a thick envelope. She held it out to me, a peace offering that felt like a blade. "You were never meant for this life, Alina," she said, her voice barely a whisper over the pounding music. "You are civilian collateral." I stared at the envelope. "What is this?" I asked. My voice sounded foreign, brittle to my own ears. "Five million dollars," she said clinically. "Consider it severance pay. Go back to Europe. Paint your pictures. Forget the name Francis." I looked down at the balcony below. Jaxon was still drinking, completely unaware that his canary had flown the cage. I took the envelope. Not because I wanted their blood money. But because I needed a weapon. "I will leave," I said, gripping the paper until it crinkled in my fist. "But first, I have a grave to visit."