She pretended not to see. He pretended not to care. Now the whole mafia clan watching them burn. When Leo Christofides saved a man’s life, she lost everything—her sight, her future as a prima ballerina, and her freedom. For two years, she’s lived in darkness, relying on the man who once promised to be her eyes. But when her vision returned, the first thing she sees is betrayal: her fiancé tangled up with her nurse, wearing the same smile he used to give only to Leo. Before Leo can escape this nightmare, she’s handed over like a pawn in a blood-soaked stand-off between two gangs. She is sold to an attractive, enigmatic mafia boss with a gun on his hip and secrets in his eyes. His name is Vic, and he introduces her to his clan not as a hostage but as his wife. Now Leo must play blind in a house full of killers, where power is the only hard currency and trust is a suicide. But she’s not the helpless girl Hermano thinks she is. Leo has a dark secret of her own. She is watching. Waiting. The next move is hers, and it can be deadly. The Vision She Hid is a dark, seductive thriller dripping in secrets and slow-burn heat, where power struggle meets mafia romance with a blade between its teeth.
View MoreThe day I got my vision back, I didn’t see stars—I saw my fiancé unzipping my nurse like a cheap suitcase behind a plastic curtain.
Poetic, if you’re into Greek tragedies and cheap lingerie.
***
My name is Leo Christofides. I’d lived in the darkness for two years, and I tell you, it’s not like walking in a black dream with your other senses swell and sharp—people who tell you that are full of crap. Darkness is just that, darkness—large, cold, and ugly like elderly catfish.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to dance for the Royal Ballet. But that was back when my legs weren’t just furniture in an expensive hospital. I wasn’t born blind. I’ve seen the blue of the sky and the cherry blossom in late spring. I remember a photo of Margot Fonteyn on my bedroom wall. It was black and white, blurry, and preciously old. It showed Margot dressed in a black leotard, with her right leg poised in the air like she was kicking fate right in the teeth. Her points looked worn and not that clean. Her face was full of disgust for life and the effects of extreme dieting. But I liked the hard sweetness of it, and her eyes were cheerful and dark, like a drop of good whiskey.
That portrait wasn’t just art—it was a challenge. My dad bought it at a swanky auction at Christie’s. It cost him a fortune, but he didn’t care. He slapped it on my wall like a personal dare. My dad—hard as a nail, built like a tank, and twice as thick-skinned. He wasn’t the guy who believed in half-measures. You did it right, or you didn’t do it at all. Deep down he was proud: his little Leonida had talent. She wasn’t just another soulless, well-stretched doll. He used to say I had a touch of magic only a few dancers had. That magic was all I had left when he died in the car accident. Mom never got over it. She couldn’t find her way out of the hole it left in her heart. She lives in a posh clinic now, sitting on a carved bench by the river, waiting for dad to pick her up. It’s been years. She’s still waiting.
When my dad died, his friend volunteered to look after us. He called himself our guardian. That was Ricky’s father—Rick the Slick, heir to a dodgy fortune. He was cute the way a baby gator is cute. But I didn’t mind the nasty side of Ricky. I liked his carefree life, his infectious laughter, and his hands on my waist like he thought he was holding something fragile.
Then there was that night. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in my room, staring at Margot Fonteyn’s poised leg, wondering how long it would take me to get there. Then the phone rang. It was Ricky. His voice had that lazy drawl, like he was born bored and never quite shook it out.
“Done with the audition, pretty? Fancy a fast ride?”
“Check,” I said, not thinking twice.
“Yey! Come to my friend’s place. We’ll figure out the rest. 5314 Lakewood Walk. You know where that is?”
“Sure, Rick. You slumming it now?”
Ricky gave me a lazy chuckle. He sounded half-drunk. “I’ll send you a cab. Don’t keep me waiting.”
I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But Rick had a way of making you feel like saying no wasn’t an option. The cab dropped me at a modern, sleek villa with an artful sandstone staircase. The place looked cool and wonky, as if a drunken moose had given it a few good kicks. Rick opened the door—tall, blonde, with a sun-kissed face that made women’s pants drop. He yanked me inside and kissed me like he was claiming lost property.
“Change of plan,” he whispered in my ear, voice tight.
“Plans are for suckers,” I shrugged, trying not to sound weary. “What are we up to?”
Rick lit a cigarette, and I watched the flame flicker against his blue eyes. “We are doing business. Nothing to worry about.”
I laughed, low and sarcastic. “Sure.”
Ricky and doing something, especially business, were mutually exclusive concepts.
His grin was quick, like a knife flicking open. “You are coming with me. We hand over a bag of cash, get some stuff, and leave. No big deal.”
“Sounds swell.”
“It’s nothing, baby. Just keep quiet and don’t look anyone in the eye.”
We got in his car—a long-wheel black Merc that purred like a happy fat cat. I took the wheel because Rick looked jittery. I’d seen him like that once before—after his dad caught him with coke in his pocket.
We took a winding road that seemed to go nowhere fast. The air was wet and thick, and the mist made the headlights look like fireflies. We stopped near a wide-span warehouse made of steel containers. Rick looked pale, sweat pooling at his temples.
“Stay put,” he whispered. He slipped out into the dark, leaving me with the smell of his sweat and a nagging sense of doom.
Then I heard it—two gunshots, then metal grinding against metal. I didn’t think. I just ran. I found Ricky pinned under a steel container, blood spilling like cheap wine. I dragged him out, slipping on the wet ground. Didn’t notice the cliff until I fell, and when I hit the rocks, the world blacked out.
When I woke up, I couldn’t see a thing. I heard footsteps crunching closer and a voice rough but not unpleasant.
“You’re a tough one, Leo Christofides. Just like your old man,” the voice said.
It was Ricky’s dad. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, voice shaking but strong.
“You saved my son. He’ll marry you, Leo. You have my word. But first, we’ll fix you like new. You will be fine, I promise.”
I didn’t answer. My face felt like a crushed vase, and everything around me was black as coal. In the distance, I heard a helicopter. It sounded like salvation, but not mine.
The lock clicked like a bad idea. I slipped inside with the grace of a cat burglar—quiet, smooth, hoping no one noticed how close I was to running away. The house swallowed the noise behind me, but the man inside wasn’t fooled. He stood by the window, back half turned away, still dressed like an assassin who liked his job.“You’re late,” he said. Not angry, just curious. The kind of curiosity that didn’t have to ask questions to carve them into your skin and let your blood answer.I dropped my Prada coat onto the chaise like I wasn’t hiding a weapon under the collar. “Late?” I smiled, lips dry. “It’s still today somewhere.” He didn’t smile back. That’s when I knew the storm had arrived and was deciding where to hit.The silence between us didn’t feel like silence any longer. It was a thousand unasked questions wearing mufflers and waiting for the right temperature to strike. Elky Jennings turned slowly, staring at me, and I felt the floor leaning toward him. I just realised my husba
We stood facing each other with decades of emptiness humming underfoot. I broke the silence first, voice flat as limestone tile.“Nice to see you didn’t become a myth,” I said. “You ghost better than I did.”He let a half-smile pull at the corner of his mouth. His fist rose in a slow, familiar arc—a gentle knock of kinship. A handshake would’ve felt like a contract. A hug like a confession. The fist bump was our middle ground.“You’re early,” he said, voice smelling like regret.“I drove,” I said. That was half truth. Dutsy drove. I steered things my way.Moonlight slanted off the broken trunk we used as meeting bench. I sat, heels resting on fractured stone. He didn’t sit down. There was a power in the man who waited standing when ruin offered a seat.“So,” I began. Silence. Then louder: “What are you doing in an old orchard pretending the world isn’t trying to kill you?”He studied me, wide silhouette carved in moonlight, eyes in shadow. “I’ve built something you might like—people
The old, mended Toyota sedan looked like a remnant of a better and younger car. It sat idling outside the house gates, paint flaking like old lies, and an engine hum that sounded a bit nervous about the road ahead. Dutsy sat behind the wheel, thin hands clenching the steering wheel like it might bolt if he blinked. His shoulders were up around his ears and his eyes never stopped checking the mirror.I slid into the passenger seat without asking. Just a short hi would do for what was ahead of us. The leatherette felt cold against my arm. I wasn’t sure this thing would make it out of town.“Nice wheels,” I muttered. “What’s it run on? Paranoia and rust?”“Mostly duct tape and prayers,” Dutsy said, eyes flicking sideways just long enough to confirm I was still there. “And a couple of wires I really shouldn’t have spliced.”I nodded. It was too late. I was fully committed to the journey. We pulled away from the house like we were stealing something. Which, technically, I guess we were. M
She found him waiting in the morning hush of my dressing room, the one where perfume fights daylight and confidence goes to recharge. He stood by the mirror, polished shoes and posture whispering he wasn’t here to unpack shoes or nag about posture. Ballet master? Maybe. Sleeper agent? Feels that way now.I came in wincing, towel pressed to my jaw, pajamas streaked with war stains. He didn’t flinch. His face gave no clue taught, no sign of curiosity or compassion.“Let me see that,” he said, as though checking your tie after you’ve killed someone well. He took the towel, pressed hard, eyes steady but tired.“I wouldn’t do more bleeding if I can help it,” he said, voice low, even. No dramatics, no pity party. Just medical attention and implicit threat.I shrugged sideways. “You haven’t helped me yet, did you?”He paused, then whipped out first‑aid kit from God‑knows‑where. Sterile pads, antiseptic, cut tape. Surgeon’s layout for trauma stage set.I let him deal with it, I wasn’t in the
.Behind me, a man blocked the door. He wore black turtleneck and had thick arms and brass knuckles gleaming like death threats. He didn’t shout “freeze”; he didn’t need to. You don’t need a script when you’ve got perfect murder set up, and the victim had no chances.I dove behind the desk at the last millisecond. The trophies rattled, and the books produced surprised, clattering sound. My heart thumped against my rib cage so loud I thought it might knock the world off its axis.But I was in luck: the blade missed my neck by a breath of fresh air. A cold whisper of metal sliced the air. I was foolish not to have a knife on me. I grabbed a small trophy from the desk, a bronze sculpture of a galloping horse. It had decent weight and had been built to last.I gave it a good swing. My kick to the desk wobbled it a bit, but the swing connected well: bronze’s sharp end met the man’s rib with bone-crunch precision. He stumbled, but only half-lost his balance—he had a decent survival skill.T
Marta’s story was the story of a dirty world populated with dirty, nasty people down to top. It was not new, not surprising, not even sad. But there was something else I needed figuring. There was one thing that bothered me about all that. It had a name written on it, and it was called Elky big bloody Jennings. There was no point sitting in my room waiting for answers to knock at my door. So I watched a few violent fights on you tube that gave me a bit of inspiration and a mild confidence too. My muscles were that of a ballet dancer, and `I felt happy enough to stretch my leg all the way up to perform a free nose job on some lousy bastard getting on my way. Midnight visits the west wing like a professional burglar—quiet, confident, with nothing to complaint to police about. The hallway felt colder here, the air tasted stuffy and bitter, and every locked door looked like a challenge. I slipped my hairpin into the lock of a door that, on the surface, was Elky’s “man caves”—leather chair
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