Broken But His: The Don's Hidden Amputee

I made my living playing background piano in underground speakeasies to pay off my fugitive father's blood debt. Tonight, I had exactly ten seconds to make sure my floor-length velvet gown completely concealed the fact that I no longer had legs.

The VIP doors swung open, and the most ruthless mafia Don in the city walked in-Killian Vitiello, the boy I loved a decade ago. He didn't know my legs were crushed by rival soldiers on the very night he took his blood oath. Instead of a reunion, he pulled a beautiful woman in a red silk dress to his side and coldly introduced her as his fiancée.

"The rumors of you being a desperate opportunist at least explain why you vanished without a word," he sneered, looking at my threadbare clothes.

He publicly disavowed my existence to the entire underworld, leaving me to be hunted by rival factions. While he built his empire, I was crawling in the freezing rain to reattach my heavy metal prosthetic, watching my mother descend into fatal madness from our crushing poverty.

I swallowed the bitter ash of my ruined life and let him believe I was a traitorous gold digger. I would rather he hate me forever than let my mutilated body become a fatal weakness to his throne.

So, after my mother died, I packed a single bag and fled the country to disappear for good.

But I didn't know that on the very day I left, Killian kicked down the door of an illicit underground clinic and finally opened my ten-year-old medical file.

Chapter 1

Evangeline POV:

While my fingers moved across the keys of a grand piano in a syndicate ballroom, my entire being was attuned to the sound of approaching footsteps in the VIP lounge. I had been brought here to settle a fraction of my fugitive father's blood debt, and I knew I had exactly ten seconds to ensure my floor-length gown completely hid the cold, mechanical truth that I no longer possessed legs.

My hands shook as I smoothed the heavy black velvet over my lap.

I was not supposed to be here.

I made my living in the underground speakeasies-the dark corners where men with guns did not look twice at the girl playing background music.

But tonight was a high-stakes charity gala serving as a legitimate front for the Vitiello Syndicate. And Killian Vitiello was the Don.

He controlled a massive legitimate music and entertainment empire, but everyone in this city knew he had built his throne on a mountain of bodies.

He was a man who painted the streets with the blood of anyone who crossed his family.

He was also the boy I had loved a decade ago.

A high-ranking associate stepped into my line of sight, his expression impassive as he informed me that the Boss demanded a private audience.

It felt as if a sponge soaked in ice water had been stuffed beneath my sternum; each weak inhalation was a rough, painful compression of my organs.

I wanted to run, but running was a luxury I had lost ten years ago on a wet highway.

I nodded, gripping the wheels of my chair under the fabric of my dress, and permitted the guards to push me down the heavily guarded corridor into the VIP lounge.

The air in the room was thick and cold.

Killian sat on a leather sofa in the shadows, his head tilted back, his eyes resting shut.

He radiated a dangerous, commanding energy that made the armed men at the door hold their breath.

He did not look like the boy who used to promise to steal me away from the pervasive scent of rust and decay in our neighborhood-he looked like a king who had laid claim to the entire city.

Without opening his eyes, his deep, rough voice cut through the silence. "Evangeline."

He knew it was me.

After ten years, after I had changed my name and buried my past, he recognized my presence in a room without even looking.

He opened his eyes. His gaze was dark, predatory, and entirely focused on me.

Then, his line of sight dropped to the wheels of my chair.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

He did not speak, but in the dim light, the contour of his masseter muscle suddenly stood out, sharp as a carving, like a fully drawn bow. "Who did this to you?"

It was not a question; it was a command.

Panic gripped my throat.

I could not tell him the truth. I could not tell him that my legs had been crushed by rival soldiers while I was trying to reach him on the night he had taken his blood oath.

I forced my voice to stay level. "It was a car accident."

His eyes narrowed, searching my face for a lie.

"A recent accident," I added hastily. "I am just recovering."

Killian stood up.

He was massive-his bespoke suit tailored over broad shoulders that appeared to bear the weight of the entire underworld.

He walked toward me, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. "Get the best care. I will have my people handle the bills."

I shook my head quickly, desperate to deflect his intense scrutiny and to steer the conversation away from the ruin of my body.

"I do not need your money, Killian," I deflected. "Why are you the Don?"

He stopped a foot away from me.

"You wanted to be an FBI agent," I pressed, my voice trembling slightly. "You wanted to be a federal prosecutor."

Killian smirked, though it was a cold, empty expression. "Enforcing my own justice suits me better than a badge."

He leaned down, placing a large hand on the armrest of my chair.

His proximity made my skin burn.

"Where did you go, Eve?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low. "You vanished the night of graduation."

I dug my fingernails into my palms. "I went to Europe. I changed my name. I wanted a dance career away from my father's disgrace."

He stared at me, his dark eyes stripping away my defenses. "You left."

"I had to."

The air in the room grew thin, each breath a conscious effort.

I needed to leave before he saw the truth beneath my dress. "I need to go," I whispered, practically asking for permission.

"Give me your contact information."

"I cannot. I am relocating to New Zealand next week."

Killian stepped closer, his chest almost touching my face.

Suddenly, the door to the lounge swung open.

A woman walked in, bypassing the armed soldiers without a single glance.

She was beautiful, draped in diamonds and a clinging red silk dress.

She walked straight to Killian and placed a manicured hand flat against his chest. "Congratulations on the merger, darling."

Killian did not push her away. Instead, he looked down at me, his expression turning to absolute stone.

"Evangeline, this is Sienna Rossi."

He paused, letting the silence stretch until my ears rang.

"My current fiancée."

She extended a diamond-clad hand towards me, but her cold smile was a blade, and I knew, in that moment, that her entrance had just signed my death warrant in the eyes of the underworld.

Evangeline POV:

The word hit my chest like a physical blow.

Fiancée.

I forced my facial muscles to form a polite, detached smile, though they protested the falsehood.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," I managed to say.

Sienna looked down at my wheelchair, her sharp eyes scanning my faded, threadbare dress.

She offered a dismissive smile.

"The engagement is just a strategic marriage dictated by the Commission. There is no real affection here," she said casually, as if discussing a mundane business transaction.

Killian looked at her, his voice entirely devoid of warmth.

"A syndicate contract still makes you mine in the eyes of the underworld, Sienna."

They bickered with the cold familiarity of mob royalty.

They belonged to a ruthless world of blood and power that I was no longer fit for.

Killian turned his attention back to me.

His gaze was heavy, pinning me to my chair like a butterfly to a specimen board; even the trembling of my hands was arrested by the cold weight of his stare.

"Have you belonged to anyone else over the last ten years?"

My breath caught in my throat.

I looked away from his intense stare, unable to bear the weight of it.

"I have had romances," I lied smoothly. "But I prefer my independence."

Killian remained silent, but his clasped hands tightened so abruptly that the friction of his knuckles made a faint, sharp sound, as if he had just warped the solid gold of his cufflinks.

I nodded to them both, murmuring a quiet farewell, and rolled my chair toward the exit.

The armed soldiers opened the heavy double doors for me.

When I reached the street outside the venue, a torrential downpour had already begun.

The freezing rain soaked my dress instantly.

I shivered, desperately trying to flag down a cab, but the rain-slicked streets were completely empty.

A massive, armored black SUV pulled up to the curb, splashing dirty water onto my wheels.

The back door swung open.

Killian stepped out into the storm, completely ignoring the bodyguards who rushed forward with umbrellas.

"Get in."

I shook my head. "I can find my own way."

Sienna leaned out from the back seat, looking annoyed.

"Just accept the Don's offer, Evangeline. You will freeze out here."

Killian did not wait for my answer.

He bent down and effortlessly lifted me out of my chair.

His large hands wrapped firmly around my waist and under my knees, leaving me helpless against his strength.

His touch burned through my wet clothes, sending a treacherous shockwave of memory through my body.

He placed me gently onto the plush leather seat of the SUV.

A bodyguard quickly folded my chair and put it in the trunk.

Killian slid in beside me, bringing the scent of rain and expensive cologne into the confined space.

The car's sound system was playing a haunting piano melody.

It was a song I had never heard, yet the chord progression felt intimately familiar.

"Give my driver your address," Killian ordered.

Panic seized my chest.

I lived in a decaying safehouse in a rival territory's slum.

If Killian saw where I truly lived, he would know my entire life was a lie.

I gave the driver the address of a heavily guarded, wealthy estate across the city.

It was the affluent neighborhood I had grown up in before my father ruined us.

Sienna poured herself a drink from the car's illuminated minibar.

"When your injury heals, you must send us tickets to your ballet troupe."

I stared out the rain-streaked window, swallowing the bitter irony.

"I will."

The SUV eventually pulled up to the massive iron gates of the affluent estate.

Killian watched me closely as the driver retrieved my chair.

I wheeled myself up the paved driveway to the front door of a random mansion.

I knocked on the heavy wood, pretending to call out for my mother.

I kept my back to the street until Killian's convoy finally drove away into the night.

As soon as the red taillights disappeared, my tense shoulders collapsed.

I was shivering violently now.

I wheeled myself back to the main road and called a cheap cab.

It took forty agonizing minutes to reach my actual home.

The slum was pitch dark, smelling foully of garbage and wet concrete.

I unlocked the deadbolt to my tiny, freezing apartment.

The place was an absolute disaster.

My mother, Clara, was sitting on the floor in a manic state.

She had taken a pair of scissors to a pile of black-market designer clothes she compulsively hoarded.

Scraps of expensive fabric covered the linoleum floor.

Beside her was a torn, empty envelope.

She had found the cash I meticulously saved for our groceries and completely shredded it.

I closed the door and locked the deadbolt behind me.

I did not yell at her. I simply did not have the energy left.

I wheeled myself to the edge of my small, lumpy bed.

I reached down under the hem of my wet velvet dress.

I unbuckled the heavy leather straps.

I detached the cold, agonizing metal prosthetics from my residual limbs.

I placed the metal legs carefully on the floor and buried my face in my trembling hands.

I wept silently in the dark.

Killian and I existed in entirely different universes now.

Three days later, my cheap burner phone rang.

It was a blocked number.

I answered cautiously, and the crisp voice on the other end unmistakably belonged to Killian's Consigliere.

"The Boss invites you to a class reunion dinner tonight at eight. A car will be waiting. Do not be late."

I stared at the dead phone, the Consigliere's polite, clipped order a far more terrifying threat than any screamed curse. He was calling to measure my weakness, and I had just been summoned to walk the plank.

Evangeline POV

I stared at the phone in my trembling hand.

My residual limbs throbbed with phantom pain, a cruel, rhythmic reminder of the ruin I now inhabited.

I pressed the speaker button, taking a shallow breath.

"Please tell Killian I cannot make it," I murmured into the receiver. "I am not feeling well."

There was a brief, pregnant pause on the line.

Then, a different voice spoke through the speaker. A dark, velvet threat that made the fine hair on my arms stand up.

"It is a rare gathering, Evangeline." The voice was smooth, yet laced with lethal promise. "Do not make me come get you."

Killian.

He was using his absolute command-the unyielding tone of a Don who did not accept the word no.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly sandpaper-dry. "I will be there."

I hung up and looked at my mother.

Clara was sitting by the drafty window, her frail hands trembling as she stared at the shredded money scattered across the floor.

She was having a rare, agonizingly lucid moment.

Bitter tears spilled down her wrinkled cheeks.

"I ruined it again, Eve," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "I ruined everything."

In the privacy of my cramped bedroom, I meticulously strapped my metal legs back onto my stumps.

The harsh, biting friction against my sensitive, scarred skin made me wince, but I forced a bright, reassuring smile as I wheeled back out to her.

"It is okay, Mama," I lied softly. "Our European extraction visas are almost ready. We will leave soon."

It was another lie, but it pacified her fragile mind.

I put on a long pair of wide-leg trousers to completely hide the unnatural shape of my prosthetics. The wheelchair would sell the lie of a slow recovery; the hidden metal would conceal the permanent, brutal fact of my dismemberment.

The sleek, black Vitiello car was waiting outside my crumbling slum, a stark contrast to the decay around it.

The driver did not ask questions. He silently drove me to a high-end restaurant owned by the syndicate.

I wheeled myself through the grand, gilded entrance, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I paused outside the private dining room. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar.

Inside, I heard the low, calculating voices of several high-ranking associates.

"I cannot believe she actually showed up," a hushed voice muttered.

"Do you remember how the Boss tore the city apart looking for her ten years ago?" another replied. "He skinned a man alive just for claiming she'd been seen with another man."

All conversation in the room was instantly sucked away, leaving only the occasional, sharp crackle of a burning cigar, which sounded exceptionally harsh in the stagnant air.

Killian's voice cut through the chatter, cold and lethal.

"Drop the subject." His tone left no room for argument. "It is dead history. Anyone who speaks of it again loses their tongue."

I pushed the door open, the hinges groaning softly.

The conversation stopped immediately.

There were a dozen people at the sprawling mahogany table. Some were old classmates, now fully integrated into the ruthless hierarchy of the mob.

They all stared at my wheelchair, their eyes heavy with unspoken questions.

I took my place near the far end of the table.

Killian sat at the head, quietly nursing a glass of amber whiskey. He did not look at me.

A man across from me, a mob-connected contractor, leaned forward, his gaze piercing.

"Evangeline. I do business in Europe," he began, a polite but dangerous smile on his lips. "Why were you never seen at the prestigious conservatories you supposedly attended?"

My throat went bone-dry.

"My family placed me in private, highly discreet tutelage," I answered smoothly, keeping my chin high. "I prefer to keep a low profile."

The lies tasted like burnt ash in my mouth.

I could feel Killian's heavy, dark eyes on me now.

The air in the room was suffocating, thick with cigar smoke and suspicion.

I excused myself and wheeled out to the restaurant's private terrace, desperate for an escape.

The night air was biting and cold. I leaned my head back against the chair, trying to catch my racing breath.

The terrace door clicked shut.

Killian stepped out into the dark.

He walked toward me, his towering, broad-shouldered frame blocking the glittering city lights.

He trapped me against the cold stone railing, placing his large hands on either side of my chair, caging me in.

"Why hasn't a simple car accident healed, Evangeline?"

His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that settled deep in my chest.

"Nerve damage," I breathed, refusing to break eye contact. "It takes time."

He looked down at my loose trousers.

"Let me see."

He reached a hand down toward my knee.

Pure, blinding panic exploded in my chest.

If he touched my leg, he would not feel flesh and bone-he would feel the hard, cold metal.

I shoved his solid chest with a shocking, desperate ferocity.

"Do not touch me!"

Killian stumbled back a half-step, visibly surprised by my sudden violence.

I gripped the wheels of my chair, my breathing ragged and uneven.

"Remember your boundaries, Killian," I warned, my voice shaking. "You are an engaged man."

His dark eyes darkened further, swirling with something dangerous.

"Are you jealous of a mafia contract, Eve?" he taunted softly.

Before I could answer, the terrace door opened slightly.

Two associates were standing just inside, their voices carrying clearly through the crack.

"She is broke. The whole European story is a pathetic lie," a sneering voice echoed. "She is just a desperate woman trying to become the Don's mistress to pay off her father's vendetta debts."

I froze, the blood draining from my face.

The ugly, humiliating words hung in the freezing air between me and Killian.

Slowly, I looked up.

Killian's face was a mask of terrifying, impassive stone. He did not blink. He was simply staring at me, waiting for me to deny it, and my silence was damning us both.