The Shattered Hand

I'd ruined my right hand saving my mafia husband, Vincent. For three years, I couldn't create.

And I just found out it was all a trap—one he'd set for me, to protect his true love, Sophia.

"The procedure was a success. Mrs. Torrino's nerve damage has almost fully healed."

Leaning against the cool hallway wall outside my husband’s study, I heard the voice of our private physician, Dr. Martinez.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Three years.

Could I finally create again?

"What?" Vincent's voice was sharp, laced with shock. "What do you mean, healed?"

"Well, sir, I've been administering a saline placebo as you asked, no actual treatment. But her body seems to be healing on its own..."

"You idiot!" Vincent hissed, his voice a low, furious snarl. "I told you to make sure she could never create again. What the hell did you do?"

My blood ran cold.

My hand...

Vincent... he did this on purpose.

"Boss, her nerve damage was treatable from the start. But Miss Sophia insisted..."

"Enough!" Vincent cut him off. "Find a way to ruin her hand again, and do it now! I can't have Isabella threatening Sophia's place in the art world!"

Dr. Martinez's voice trembled. "Boss, if we attempt another procedure, Mrs. Torrino might suffer permanent paralysis... or worse."

"I don't care what happens to her! Sophia saved my life. I will not let her down!"

I clamped a hand over my mouth, choking back a sob.

For three years, I believed it was a tragic accident.

It was all a meticulously crafted lie.

Sophia, the deadly assassin always at his side...

After they left, I slipped back into the study.

I knew the code to his safe—our wedding anniversary.

The irony was a bitter pill.

The moment the safe clicked open, the air left my lungs.

On the top shelf sat a dozen photos of Sophia.

A close-up of the serpent tattoo coiling on her back. Pictures of her posing with various weapons.

A photo of her at an art gala, wearing a gown I designed, smiling for an interview.

Every photo was meticulously dated, starting ten years ago.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the file at the very bottom.

A medical report.

"Isabella Torrino: Nerve Damage Treatment Protocol"

It stated clearly: Patient's initial nerve damage is fully reparable.

However, per Mr. Vincent Torrino's directive, a placebo treatment will be administered to ensure permanent functional impairment.

I collapsed to the floor, the report fluttering from my hand.

For three years, I had cried myself to sleep, hating my own weakness, hating that I couldn't create.

And he, the husband I loved more than life itself, was the one who had destroyed me.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious, but I wiped them away with a vicious swipe.

This wasn’t the time for grief.

It was time for answers.

I quietly put everything back, my movements stiff with newfound purpose.

Vincent had already told me he was taking me to an auction tonight.

I changed into a black evening gown and waited for him to come for me.

...

"And now for tonight's main event, lot number 37," the auctioneer's voice boomed. "A sculpture design by the brilliant artist Sophia Martinez, titled 'Rebirth.'"

My skin went cold.

The design on the massive screen was mine.

My work from three years ago.

Every line, every curve, was the result of countless nights I'd poured my soul into.

"That's my design," I hissed, grabbing Vincent's arm. "Vincent, that's my work."

He shook my hand off, his eyes like chips of ice. "Isabella, don't be ridiculous."

""Look closer! The signature—that flourish on the ‘A’ is my trademark. And the filigree on the angel’s wing… that’s my technique. No one else does that. My voice rose, drawing stares.

Sophia walked over, a mask of perfect concern on her face. "Isabella, I know it's been painful for you, not being able to create, but..."

"Shut up!" I lunged at her. "That's mine! You're a thief!"

Crack!

The sound of Vincent's hand striking my face echoed in the sudden silence.

A hush fell over the entire auction house.

Every powerful figure in the room was staring.

"That's enough, Isabella!" Vincent's eyes were filled with pure disgust. "Shut your mouth."

My cheek burned, tears blurring my vision. "Vincent..."

"Sophia is a hero to this family. If you dare insult her again, don't think for a second I'll remember we're married." He turned to the crowd. "My wife... hasn't been herself lately. Please excuse her outburst."

Muffled laughter.

Mocking whispers from every corner.

I felt like I'd been stripped naked for the world to see.

I fled to the restroom.

A moment later, Sophia strolled in, touching up her lipstick in the mirror.

"You know, Isabella," she said, her eyes meeting mine in the reflection, a vicious smile on her lips, "that mission three years ago? I could have easily tackled you out of the way."

A chill shot down my spine.

"What are you talking about?"

"But I chose not to," she purred, turning to face me. "I let the bullet find your hand. A career-ending injury for you, a flesh wound for me to play the hero."

"You're insane..."

"Insane? No, I'm crystal clear." Sophia stepped closer, her laugh low and cruel.

"To this day, Vincent thinks I was the one who saved him in that church. I know it was you. But you'll never get the chance to tell him."

My knees buckled.

The church... that rainy night fifteen years ago...

The little boy, covered in blood...

"Do you get it now?" Sophia caressed my stinging cheek. "He loves the woman who saved him. And right now, that woman is me."

I shoved her away and fled, their pitying looks and mocking whispers burning my back like a brand.

I went back to our mansion.

Vincent didn't come home until late.

He was off comforting the "wronged" Sophia, I was sure.

Thinking about the pain, my art, my life—all stolen by her—my heart turned to ash.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the encrypted number.

"Grandpa, I need to disappear in three days," I said, my voice cold and steady. "I need everyone to believe Isabella Torrino is dead."

The second I hung up, a voice cut through the darkness behind me.

"What are you doing?"