Chapter 2 - The Empty Crown
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The rumor spread through the New York underworld faster than a wildfire. By noon, whispers echoed through Manhattan's finest restaurants and darkest alleys: Damian Russo, the untouchable head of the Russo organization, would never walk again.
Within hours, the empire began to bleed. Two long-standing shipping partners suddenly demanded revised contracts, sensing weakness. A cousin who had called Damian "brother" since childhood quietly transferred millions of dollars overseas.
And Vivian Mercer, the woman scheduled to become Mrs. Damian Russo in exactly six weeks, did not visit the hospital at all.
She finally arrived four days later, after Damian had been transported to his sprawling, heavily guarded estate outside Bedford. He sat in a state-of-the-art titanium wheelchair beside a hospital bed that had been hastily set up in his master suite on the ground floor.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Vivian entered, dressed in a stunning, fitted black cashmere coat. Her blonde hair cascaded perfectly over her shoulders, and tears were already glistening in her carefully mascaraed eyes.
"Oh, Damian," she gasped, rushing across the room.
She knelt beside his wheelchair, resting her hands on his thighs. For a fleeting moment, Damian almost admired the sheer perfection of her performance.
"Why didn’t you call me?" she asked, her voice trembling as she delicately touched the bandage on his cheek.
"I did," Damian said flatly.
Her expression flickered. "My assistant said you were resting."
"I called three times, Vivian."
"I was dealing with the wedding vendors," she recovered quickly, squeezing his hand. "We’re going to find the best doctors, darling. I promise."
"They say there’s nothing to fix," Damian lied, letting his shoulders sag in a display of utter defeat. "I can’t walk. I can’t feel anything below my waist. Someone has to dress me."
He watched her carefully. Not her eyes, but her hands.
As he spoke of his helpless state, her fingers tightened around his. Then, her face changed for less than a second. It was a microscopic tightening around her mouth, a subtle recoil of physical disgust that she buried almost immediately.
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"Oh," she whispered.
Damian had survived gunshots, federal indictments, and twenty years of men lying to his face. But seeing the woman he was supposed to marry look at him with hidden revulsion hurt far more than the fractured ribs in his chest.
