The Mafia Don's Regret: Torturing His True Savior

Alana POV

"Where is it?"

Austen's voice was a low, subterranean growl.

He was looming over my hospital bed, gripping my right hand with bruising force.

The ring finger was bare.

"I lost it," I said, keeping my gaze fixed on the sterile white tiles of the ceiling. "Must have fallen off when they changed the bandages."

"Liar."

He dug into his pocket and extracted the ring.

He had retrieved it directly from the biohazard bin.

"You do not discard me, Alana."

He shoveled the ring back onto my finger.

He forced the cold metal past the knuckle, hard enough to grind bone against bone.

"Get dressed," he commanded, stepping back as if the intimacy disgusted him. "We are going out. You need to be seen."

"I can't walk," I said, my voice raspy.

"Then crawl."

An hour later, we were on Rodeo Drive.

Austen had cleared the flagship store for a private viewing.

He paraded me around like a prize poodle that had been kicked too many times-bandaged, limping, and on display.

My arm was in a black silk sling.

I wore oversized sunglasses to hide the dark circles carved under my eyes.

Joyce was there, of course.

She was flitting around the space, pointing at bags she wanted with manic energy.

"Oh, look!" Joyce squealed.

She was pointing at a display case in the auction house next door, visible through the glass partition.

"Antique silver. Boring."

I looked.

My breath caught in my throat, turning into a sharp pain.

It was a silver locket.

My mother's locket.

Robert, my father, had pawned it to pay a gambling debt barely a week after her funeral.

It was the only thing I had left of her.

"I want to go in there," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

Austen looked at the locket, then at me, his eyes cold.

"Fine. Whatever keeps you quiet."

We entered the auction house.

The bidding was already underway, the air thick with tension and expensive perfume.

"Five hundred dollars," I said, lifting my chin.

"One thousand," a voice chirped.

It was Joyce.

She grinned at me, predatory and bright.

"Two thousand," I said.

"Five thousand," Joyce countered instantly.

Austen sighed, checking his watch. "Joyce, stop playing."

"But I want it, Austen! It's vintage."

She didn't want it.

She knew I wanted it.

"Ten thousand," I said.

"Twenty," Joyce laughed, twirling a strand of hair.

"Alana, yield," Austen ordered, his patience thinning. "Let her have the trinket. I'll buy you a diamond necklace."

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"No."

I raised my paddle, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"One million dollars."

The room went deathly silent.

The auctioneer choked on his own spit.

Austen stared at me, his jaw tight enough to snap.

"Sold," the auctioneer squeaked, recovering his composure. "To Mrs. Ballard."

I used Austen's account.

I had just incinerated a million dollars of his money for a piece of silver worth fifty bucks.

Joyce screamed.

She actually stomped her foot, like a petulant child denied candy.

"Austen! She's mocking you!"

Austen grabbed Joyce's arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

"Calm down," he soothed her, though his eyes remained fixed on me with lethal promise. "I'll handle her."

He turned to me.

"Wait in the parking garage. Driver 2 is there."

He led a weeping Joyce out the front door to buy her ice cream or diamonds or whatever appeased the monster.

I walked to the garage alone, clutching the locket so hard the edges bit into my palm.

I reached the designated black SUV.

The driver wasn't there.

Three men detached themselves from behind a concrete pillar.

They weren't Ballard men.

They were street thugs, hired muscle with dead eyes.

"Miss Cummings sends her regards," one of them grinned, revealing a gold tooth.

He didn't hesitate.

He punched me in the ribs.

I heard the crack before I felt the pain.

I fell to the concrete, curling around the locket to shield it with my body.

They kicked me.

Once. Twice. Three times.

They didn't touch my face.

Joyce wanted me broken, not ugly.

They left me gasping for air on the oil-stained floor, tasting copper and dust.

My phone beeped.

A text from Joyce.

Don't be late for dinner at Daddy's house. We're celebrating my new necklace.