The Hidden Medical Genius: Healing My Crippled Mafia Boss

ELEONORA POV:

I had just changed into a pair of sleek, practical black trousers and a charcoal silk blouse when my bedroom door was pushed open without the courtesy of a knock.

Charlize swept in, draped in a magnificent white evening gown that trailed behind her like a bridal veil. She waved away the maid who followed her, forcing the girl to wait outside before shutting the door.

She surveyed my simple, soon-to-be-abandoned room, her eyes glinting with the toxic satisfaction of a victor.

"So pitiful, sister," Charlize sighed, drifting toward my mahogany vanity table. "Leaving the family empire behind for a graveyard. You can't even take any of this with you."

I leaned against the window frame, arms crossed over my chest, watching her perform in cold, clinical silence.

My lack of reaction clearly irritated her. She picked up a silver antique jewelry box—the one my late mother had left me—and flipped it open. Inside lay a single vintage lipstick and a faded framed photograph of my mother.

"I hear Damien's estate is in the most remote part of the upstate woods," Charlize mocked, playing with the lipstick between her manicured fingers. "Old, rotting, and decrepit. Just like him. But Father said it doesn't matter... he won't even last the month."

Seeing that I still didn't flinch, Charlize’s fake smile turned utterly vicious. She leaned closer, her eyes flashing with raw jealousy.

"You always acted like you were so much better than me, Eleonora," she venomously whispered. "Well, look at you now! You're being shipped off to nurse a corpses while I take your crown! I will be the future mistress of the Carlisle syndicate!"

When I remained unmoved, her face twisted in frustration. She turned her malice toward the only thing left in the box.

"And your dead mother?" Charlize spat, digging her sharp, sapphire-painted fingernail directly into the glass of the photo, dragging it hard enough to leave a deep, jagged scratch right across my mother's face. "She died a discarded line item in Father's ledger, just like—"

She didn't get to finish the sentence.

She had touched my trigger.

I didn't slap her. I moved faster than her eyes could track.

My hand shot forward, grabbing her right wrist with a crushing grip. With a flick of my thumb against the median nerve, a sharp, paralytic bolt of pain shot through her arm, forcing her fingers to instantly pop open. The jewelry box rattled safely onto the table.

Before Charlize could even scream, my other hand clamped around her throat like an iron vise.

SLAM!

I shoved her hard against the cold stone wall. Her pristine white gown crumpled against the rough surface in stark, ironic contrast to my dark attire.

My arm remained immovable, my thumb pressing lightly against her carotid artery—just enough to restrict her breath without killing her. Her small, pampered body writhed uselessly against my strength, making pathetic, choked gurgles.

The arrogance in her eyes shattered into pure, primal terror.

"You..." she choked out, her face rapidly turning red from lack of oxygen.

"You seem to have misunderstood something, Charlize," I said, my voice so cold it felt stripped of all human emotion. "I am not arguing with you. I am educating you."

I loosened my grip slightly—just enough to let a tiny gasp of air enter her lungs, but kept her pinned firmly against the wall.

"First," I leaned close to her ear, my tone smooth as silk yet deadly as cyanide. "From this day forward, I am Damien Carlisle's wife. In our syndicate, rank is everything. When you see me, you will address me as 'Ma'am.' Or Mrs. Carlisle."

Charlize stared at me, shaking uncontrollably, as if looking at a demon in human flesh.

"Second," my voice dropped an octave, each word a shard of glass. "You can flaunt what you've stolen. You can play with Julian’s little egos all you want. But if you ever mention my mother again—or lay your filthy hands on her things—I will personally dissect every nerve in your body while you're still awake to feel it."

I leaned back, giving her a small, terrifying smile. "Enjoy your stolen wedding, little sister. Poisonous gifts always come with a price."

I released my grip abruptly.

Charlize collapsed onto the hardwood floor like a puppet with its strings cut, clutching her throat, coughing and gasping violently for air.

I looked down at her as if she were dirt on my shoe, calmly adjusting my black silk cuffs.

"Get out," I commanded softly.

She didn't even try to stand up gracefully. She scrambled to her feet on hands and knees and practically threw herself out the door, weeping in sheer panic.

Outside, the maid shrieked in surprise, followed by the frantic, echoing sound of Charlize's high heels fleeing down the marble corridor.

Silence returned to the room.

I walked back to the vanity, picked up my mother’s photo, and gently wiped the dust from the scratched glass with a velvet cloth. I placed it carefully into the hidden compartment of my travel bag.

The adjoining door opened, and Penny peeked her head out, her face pale and her lower lip trembling. She had heard everything.

She looked at me—no longer just as her quiet, soft-spoken mistress, but with a profound, awestruck reverence.