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.
