Chapter 4 - THE COLD RECKONING
Owen froze mid-step, his towering frame locking up completely in the narrow doorway of the supply room.
His dark eyes dropped from Aurora’s face down to the floor, landing directly on the sleek, matte-black carbon-fiber prosthetic leg resting on the tile beside her hand.
Slowly, his gaze shifted to her right leg—to the red, swollen skin below her knee, and then upward to her bare lower thigh, where a thick, jagged silver scar carved its way across her skin before vanishing under the hem of her black uniform.
Every trace of anger, dominance, and cold authority vanished from Owen Callahan’s face in a fraction of a second. The deep color drained completely from his cheeks, leaving the powerful mafia chief looking as pale as a ghost beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the supply room.
His breath hitched audibly in his chest. His hands, which had been clenched into aggressive fists at his sides, went entirely limp.
He stared at the scars as if looking through time, his mind reeling as decades of calculated detachment dissolved into pure, unadulterated shock.
Owen took a half-step backward, his chest heaving as he whispered two words under his breath.
May you like
"November fourteenth."
Aurora went completely still. Her hands froze on the sleeve of her prosthetic. The air in the tiny supply room grew instantly suffocating.
