Alice Romano ate her dinner with little appetite. Her right leg, bandaged and aching, wasn't as painful as it had been that afternoon, but she still couldn't do anything on her own—not even go to the bathroom without struggling.
When she tried to shift her weight to her good leg to take a step, the injured one pulsed sharply with pain. Even though she leaned on the cane the maid had given her earlier, walking felt like hell. Asking for help? Impossible. That maid? Maybe. But that cruel man? Absolutely not. Alice refused to let her body be touched by the very man who had crippled her and left her visibly impaired.
"Take this food away," she snapped. "I've lost my appetite."
She shoved the plate aside and greedily gulped down water. At least the water helped dilute the bitter taste of the medication she had taken earlier.
"Madam, would you like—"
"Don't call me 'Madam'! That sounds ancient. Don't compare me to your master. Sure, he deserves to be called 'Master'—after all, age doesn't lie. Now, just take the food away!"
She waved her hand, dismissing the female attendant who had brought the luxurious meal—a meal that came from her husband, legally in the eyes of law and religion, but emotionally a prison guard.
Damn it.
The thought of that marriage made her blood boil. Her late father should never have sacrificed her future for a stupid agreement with the Louise family—one of the most ruthless Mafia families in all of L.A.
"Even in death, Papa still haunts me," she muttered bitterly. "Wasn't his life miserable enough? With a wife and an illegitimate child constantly causing trouble. God should've punished him, but no—He waited. Finally made him blind and deaf forever. Now rot!"
She continued cursing her father, the late Jacob Romano, who had never once brought her peace. Not when he was alive. Not even after being cremated.
"May God judge you properly for once. You cheated on my mom, had a child with your mistress, made me suffer... What else? Just how many sins did you rack up, Mr. Jacob?"
With limited mobility, Alice reached for the blanket on her bed, struggling to pull it over her legs. She hissed in pain, gritting her teeth, refusing to let even a whimper escape.
"Looks like you're having a lovely evening," a voice said, slow and cold. The man had been silently watching her movements and listening to every word.
He approached slowly, his piercing eyes fixed on her. He didn't look away. As he reached her bedside, he leaned down slightly, his tall figure overshadowing her. At 190 centimeters, he towered over Alice, who stood only 170.
"Stay away from me, Mr. Mateo Louise!" she snapped, recoiling from her husband's intense gaze.
"Ouch!" she screamed when he suddenly touched her injured leg.
"Good grief, can't you be gentle?!"
"You move too much! Look, your bandage is soaked. I don't want my bed stained with your blood, woman!" he barked, shouting to the person standing outside the door.
"Clean her up. Move her to my room. I don't want blood dripping around here. Change her bandage, now!"
"Yes, sir. Let me help her, Ma'am."
Alice said nothing. Not only because she couldn't move much, but because Mateo's voice carried a tone of absolute command. She hated it—being barked at like she was property. But she couldn't fight back now.
He was rude. Cold. And she had no strength to resist.
"How thoughtful of him," she muttered sarcastically. "If he's so worried about the bed, he could've just given me a mattress on the floor instead of dragging me into his precious room."
She flinched when she saw blood soaking through her gauze.
"Damn it! I don't want stitches again. That hurts!" she whined.
The first time she was stitched, the doctor hadn't even bothered giving her anesthesia. All thanks to that cruel man she was forced to call husband.
"No, Ma'am. I'll just clean it, to avoid infection. After that, you can rest. Please let me help you before the Master gets angry again."
The female attendant tried to lift Alice, who groaned in pain. Even the slightest movement was agonizing. The bullet wound had truly paralyzed her.
"Don't worry, Ma'am. Mr. Louise has injured women before. You won't be the first to bleed because of him. But maybe tonight, God will answer your prayer."
Alice's lips quivered. "I don't need your sympathy," she said, voice weak but sharp. "If God really cared, He wouldn't let a man like Mateo Louise still breathe."
---
Meanwhile, in a secret underground location—
Mateo Louise, the man who married Alice Romano, stayed true to his word. He had no interest in attending the meeting with those bloodsuckers. Instead, he strolled through the corridors of his underground weapons warehouse.
His boots echoed with every powerful step. He inspected rows of crates. Hundreds of weapons had already been shipped across the U.S., and even to Central and East Asia. Orders continued flooding in.
The Japanese Yakuza were practically begging for his products. Some even fought each other over them. But Mateo never sold recklessly. He didn't care about profit—only power.
"Sir, a group from Italy is requesting a meeting with you tomorrow."
Mateo stopped. One eyebrow arched as he ran a finger along his Desert Eagle pistol—his favorite weapon. A touch more tender than anything he ever gave his wife.
The woman he'd married for a week? All she got was a bullet.
"What do they want?" he asked flatly.
"Your presence, apparently. Alessandro still wants something you own."
"Fine. Let's meet them. I want to see what these clowns are planning. But if they cross the line... execute them on the spot."
The man beside him stiffened. He nodded but swallowed hard. Executions were common in this business, but not many men said it so casually.
Mateo resumed his walk, his figure vanishing into the dim hallway, where shadows danced on walls lined with death.
---
Back in the mansion, Alice lay wide awake in the master bedroom she despised. Mateo's scent lingered on the sheets—clean, strong, and suffocating.
She hated how her body still reacted to him. The way his voice rumbled, the way he walked like he owned the world. She hated how the memory of his touch—even the cruel one—still lingered like a curse she couldn't shake.
"I'll escape," she whispered to the ceiling. "If it kills me, I'll still escape."
But even as she promised herself, her body throbbed in protest. She couldn't even stand on her own two feet, let alone run.
Her eyes fluttered closed, not from peace, but from sheer exhaustion. Yet, even in sleep, her dreams were filled with fire, blood, and the cold voice of the man she married.