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160. GIULIANNA
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2025-10-01 23:43:38
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His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 160. GIULIANNA
The hospital doesn’t smell like leather and smoke, like power and threats. It smells like antiseptic and warm linen, the kind of place where the world narrows to the sound of a heartbeat monitor and the small breaths of someone you can’t afford to lose.Sofia’s room is on the top floor, away from the noise of the city. Matteo holds the door open for me, his hand lingering on my lower back as if he knows I need anchoring before I step inside.She’s sitting up in bed, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, skin still pale but brighter than the last time I saw her. The blanket is pulled up to her chest, and a stuffed bear—too childish for her age, but precious because Matteo bought it during one of his late-night visits—sits tucked under her arm.“Daddy!” Her voice lifts, small but full of light.Matteo crosses the room in three long strides. For all the power he commands in the streets, it’s here—kneeling beside her bed, kissing her forehead—that he looks undone. “Principessa,” he mu
His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 159. GIULIANNA
The house was quiet. For once, there were no calls, no meetings, no knocks on the door about business. Just the hum of the evening and the distant chirping of crickets outside.I was on the couch, trying to focus on the book in my hands, but my mind wasn’t really on it. My eyes flicked to the clock, then to the hallway where I knew Matteo had disappeared earlier. He’d been quieter since our fight days ago, but not cold. Just… brooding, in his way.“Are you really reading that, Giuli?” His voice came from behind me, low and teasing.I turned, pretending to be annoyed. “Yes, Matteo, people actually *do* read for enjoyment.”He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that smirk that was always trouble. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, veins prominent, jaw shadowed with a faint stubble. “You’ve been on the same page for fifteen minutes.”Heat crept up my neck. Damn him for noticing. “Maybe it’s just a long page.”He pushed himself off the frame and walked closer, slow
His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 158. GIULIANNA
His grip on my wrists tightened, rough but trembling. The heat of his skin burned into mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might crush me—not with his hands, but with the weight of everything he refused to say. “Let go,” I hissed, trying to yank free. “No,” Matteo growled, his voice breaking on the single syllable. His eyes were wild, the kind of wild that came from too many nights without sleep, too many years of blood on his hands. “If I let go, Giuli, maybe I lose you. Maybe you run. Maybe you decide one morning that the fight is enough, that I’m enough, and then you’ll be gone.” I froze, my anger stuttering against the rawness in his voice. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m here, Matteo. I’ve been here every goddamn day.” He laughed, harsh and hollow. “No. You’ve been here for them. For this family, for this empire, for ghosts of men who built their thrones out of bones. And I…” His chest heaved, his words spilling like poison he’d been swallowing too long. “I’m
His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 157. GIULIANNA
The villa was too quiet when I came home. No footsteps, no shuffle of men outside the hall, only the faint hum of the sea through the balcony doors. My head was pounding from a day of unraveling the Vitales’ newest move: another supplier backing out, a man who swore loyalty yesterday suddenly refusing to pick up my calls today.I found Matteo in the study. The lamp cast his face in sharp light, his jaw clenched as he sat hunched over the desk, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He wasn’t reading the reports scattered in front of him. He was staring through them.“Another front pulled back,” I said, dropping my coat on the chair. My voice came out sharper than I intended. “They don’t want to be seen on our side. Vitale threats are working.”He didn’t answer. Not even a glance. Just the slow drag of smoke, the kind that fills a silence with something heavier.“Matteo,” I pressed, stepping closer. “Did you hear me? They’re cutting ties, one by one. If we don’t act fast—”“Yeah,”
His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 156. GIULIANNA
The villa was still breathing when the first messages arrived—video clips, forwarded by a dozen anonymous accounts, each one stitched together like a lie with better lighting. Footage of men in Bianchi colors near Francesco’s villa, shadows that could be read any way the watcher wanted. A voiceover, edited to sound like a confession. A headline "Bianchi Murdered Vitale: Proof of Brutality". It spread like oil. I watched it once, twice, then slammed my fist into the desk until the wood stung. It was clean, professional—timed to muddy the water before my counters could surface. Whoever cut this knew how the world watched: quick outrage, slower facts. Matteo was already moving. He ripped open the shutter to the study, the morning light coming in like an accusation. “Leak came from three accounts,” he said, voice flat. “All routed through the same mirror server in Naples. It’s not just a smear—someone’s running a campaign.” “Then we drown it out,” I said. “Not with words. With fact.”
His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim 155. GIULIANNA
The sea swallowed Francesco Vitale before dawn. They dropped him bound and gagged into the black water, weights chained to his ankles. No speeches, no prayers. Just the hiss of rope sliding from Matteo’s hands and the hollow splash as the Adriatic claimed another secret. By the time the first gulls began their morning calls, Francesco Vitale was nothing more than ripples and silence. But killing a man never ends with his body. It begins. When we returned to the villa, I didn’t change my dress. Black silk clung to me, smelling of perfume and gunpowder, like some unholy mixture of life and death. The council was already waiting in the study, their faces pale, their voices hushed. “You’ve just declared war on every Vitale still breathing,” Romano said, his hands shaking as he lit a cigar. “Francesco wasn’t just a leader—he was their pride. His death won’t break them. It’ll rally them.” I sat behind my father’s desk, spine straight, eyes unblinking. “Good,” I said. “Let them gather
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