The Broken Donna: Mute, Crippled, Gutted

I was once the most exquisite rose in New York's underworld.

Leander Castello's wife. The mafia godfather's treasured queen. The woman everyone envied.

I thought he would be my salvation, my forever.

Until he snapped me in half with his own hands and threw me into the filthiest pit like trash.

He said he needed to teach me what betrayal costs.

So I was handed over to the Mexican cartel boss, Carlos.

Six months later, when he kicked down that iron door, I was on my knees in a pool of blood, crawling toward his feet like a beaten dog.

I thought he was just another client.

I opened my mouth, revealing my shattered teeth, forcing sounds like grinding metal through vocal cords destroyed by industrial acid.

I mechanically unbuttoned my shirt, displaying the crisscrossing cigarette burns and brands covering my skin.

I knocked my forehead against his shoe, silently begging him not to use the hose on me today.

He stared at my mutilated right leg, at my vacant eyes, and finally understood—

That rose had rotted away on the cartel's operating table, along with our child.

What's left now is just a living corpse.

The iron door flew off its hinges with a single kick, crashing onto the concrete floor.

Harsh light flooded the basement. I recoiled into the corner like a beaten animal shrinking from the light, my shattered right leg dragging a sticky trail of blood across the rough ground.

My hands instinctively clamped over my head, body convulsing uncontrollably.

Pure muscle memory. Whenever that door burst open with such violence, it meant a fresh round of torture, beatings, or the guards' revolting relief.

I forced my eyes open, my vision scattered from chronic malnutrition.

Against the blinding backlight stood a tall man.

He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, handmade leather shoes without a speck of dust—utterly incongruous with this filthy, reeking drug den.

The air seemed to crystallize.

Behind him, his men held assault rifles, smoke still curling from the barrels.

Outside in the courtyard—dead silence. Carlos's men were probably all corpses now.

My gaze traveled up his crisp trousers, settling on his hand with its prominent knuckles. On his ring finger, a heavy family signet ring.

Leander.

My husband. The Castello family's godfather.

My oxygen-starved, pain-addled brain processed information with agonizing slowness. I felt no joy at reunion, no terror of revenge.

In that moment, my shattered mind saw only one thing—another man. Another customer.

If I didn't comply, I'd be beaten. Burned with red-hot irons. Held underwater until my lungs burst.

I flinched. Then, bracing my hands against the frozen floor, I struggled to lift my upper body.

Below my right knee—nothing. Just a deformed mass of scar tissue and raw flesh, infected repeatedly from lack of proper treatment.

I dragged my useless leg toward that towering figure. Chains scraped across the floor with harsh metallic clinks.

One foot. Two feet.

I reached his shoes, my filthy blood smearing the expensive leather.

I raised my head, facial muscles twitching involuntarily as I forced out the ingratiating smile burned into my bones.

My jaw dropped open habitually, ready to greet this new client.

But industrial acid had destroyed my vocal cords months ago. My throat produced only sounds like a broken bellows—ugly, grating. "Uh... ah..."

Didn't matter. Just stay quiet. Don't annoy him.

With practiced movements, I lifted my hands—covered in frostbite and whip marks, fingers deformed from improperly healed fractures. Still, I stubbornly, tremblingly began unbuttoning what remained of my tattered shirt.

One button. Two buttons.

The crisscrossing cigarette burns and brand marks underneath exposed to the frigid air. I mechanically opened my arms, like damaged merchandise on display, staring at him with hollow eyes.

Come in. You can use the back.

As long as you don't beat me with the hose today. As long as you give me half a moldy tortilla. I'll do anything.

Leander froze.

Those eyes—always cold and imperious, gray-blue—now contracted violently.

He stared at me. At my pain-ravaged face. At the broken teeth in my open mouth. Finally, his gaze settled on the limp remnant dragging behind me.

His breathing turned heavy, arrhythmic.

"Cordelia?"

His voice came out hoarse, terrible, trembling in a way he might not have even noticed.

I didn't recognize that name. I only knew Carlos called me "bitch," called me "damaged goods."

Hearing him speak, I thought he found me too slow.

Panic seized my heart instantly. I abandoned the buttons, lunging forward to wrap my arms around his calf, pressing my filthy face against his trousers.

Please, don't hit me.

I knocked my forehead desperately against the hard leather of his shoes, opening a gash. My ruined voice forced out wet, broken sounds: "Nnn... sss... plee..."

"Christ..."

Leander bent down sharply, gripping my wrist with crushing force, forcibly stopping my kowtowing and undressing. His strength nearly broke my bones.

His chest heaved violently. The implacable godfather mask cracked. He stared at me, eyes filled with shock and barely controlled savagery.

"What did they do to you..." The words ground out from deep in his throat.

I looked at him blankly.

His cologne and Havana cigar scent flooded my nostrils. This smell that once meant safety now only made my stomach spasm violently.

I turned my head, collapsing into violent dry heaves, producing nothing but bitter acid.

Facing my instinctive rejection, Leander's jaw tightened abruptly.

He slowly released my wrist, straightening to look down at me from his full height. The emotion in his eyes vanished instantly, transforming back into the emotionless, ruthless godfather.

"This was supposed to teach you a lesson, not turn you into this." He coldly averted his gaze, no longer looking at me, ordering his men behind him, "Take her away."

Two large bodyguards immediately approached, gripping my arms from both sides.

The moment they lifted me, I thought they were dragging me to that foul water cell that reached my chin. Terror gave me explosive strength. I thrashed violently.

"Ah! Ahhh!" I screamed, broken nails clawing at the bodyguard's arms.

"Hold still!" One guard impatiently raised his hand, slapping me without hesitation.

The sharp crack. Half my face went numb, ears ringing, mouth flooding with the heavy taste of blood.

That single blow awakened my survival instinct—resistance meant more beatings.

I stopped struggling instantly.

Went completely still.

Like a rag doll with its stuffing pulled out, I let them drag me, half-suspended in air, out of the dark basement.

Blinding sunlight hit my face without warning.

Before my eyes could even adjust to the shock of light, I was shoved roughly into the dark backseat of an armored SUV.

The heavy door thudded shut, sealing me away from the glare and the sweltering jungle outside.

I closed my dry eyes, shivering violently as the icy air conditioning blasted over me.

If this was obedience, Leander... you should have just killed me.