MasukShe 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.
Lihat lebih banyakThe storm came in sideways over the hills. You could hear the vines complaining through the old stone. Christofides house held the noise the way it held everything else—behind thick walls, under a roof that had seen more convincing threats.We had taken the long dining table away from food. No plates, no candles. Just laptops, printouts, three cold coffee pots, and enough wires to trip a small army. The crystal chandelier above us looked confused. It was built for weddings and gala dinners, not for corporate autopsies.I sat halfway down the table with a stack of shipping logs on my right and a legal pad on my left. The pad stayed mostly clean. The logs did all the talking.Novazene LLC. Novazene Holdings. NovaZ Therapeutics. Then the same thing in Maltese, Cypriot, Greek, and whatever language tax men can dream of. Corporate addresses in Wilmington, Valetta, and Limassol. One phone number that rang in Zurich but nobody picked up.Nicos sat at the head of the table because he always d
There was an obscure modern building on the edge of Buenos Aires. It felt the way a bad idea sits at the edge of a man’s mind—half in shadow, half pushing him to do stupid things. That white container building used to be a language school. You could still see the painted vowels under the sun-bleached posters for “Phase II: Community Renewal.” A row of white plastic chairs lined the clean enough corridor, the kind you find in underfunded government offices. They creaked despair even when nobody sat on them.Inside, the fluorescent hummed like old men bad dream. The white tiles were cracked in the lazy way tiles crack when nobody expects the flooring to make a good impression. A woman in a blue hairnet pushed a mop around without bending her back too much. She’d seen better messes; this didn’t scare her off.Room 4 smelled of antiseptic and sweat. The fan on the ceiling spun slow and lazy. A man in his thirties sat on the metal cot with his hands clenched between his knees. His legs sho
Nicos spread the shipping logs across his knees like a map he’d spent a lifetime learning to hate. The laptop’s flat glow bathed us in a pallid honesty—tired but unflinching. He scrolled and tapped as though each keystroke were a punch in the gut. Dates piled up like nasty debts, ports repeated as if echoing our forgotten sins, and flags on the screen promised lies wrapped up in neat corporate lawsuits.“Here,” he said, his voice as clipped as a bank teller’s, and the line on the screen offered a poetic name: NOVAZENE LLC. Wilmington, Delaware. Just another subsidiary of a subsidiary stashed away in a trust with a name that sounded like a Florida golf club. The same wire routes that fed those shabby clinic shells, the same batch code—Δ-12—and the notes column, ever cryptic, declared odd “biological consumables.” A message as cold and final as a price on one’s ruined life.“Uh-huh. It’s Lucia’s paper trail,” I said, letting the words hang in the stale air.“She likes American mannerism
Our helicopter climbed until the town went flat and the Sicilian lemon groves turned into dark plates with neat black seams. The pilot killed the lights and held the nose steady. Nobody was in a mood for idle chat. We had the thump of the blades, the hiss of air through the vents, and the thin metal whine that files at your teeth. The oldish wireless printer sat bolted under the console with a separate battery pack, like somebody’s bad joke about office work on the run. I though it was rather handy joke. I thumbed through the settings until it coughed itself awake. It hesitated, thought it over, then spat pages into my hand! Gianni’s ledgers, neat stack of them, slid into my plastic sleeve like fish in the net. The paper smelled of disinfectant and burned coffee. Ink had bled on the first sheet and then made up its mind to be professional. The numbers looked odd. They’ve ran in Anatole’s tight, crabbed style. He wrote things as if someone was watching and he didn’t plan to make it ea


















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