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Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡My dad hadn’t stopped watching him. From the kitchen island, arms crossed, jaw tight.“Adriano, was it?” he asked, like he already hated him but was willing to delay murder until dessert.“Yes, senhor,” Adriano answered respectfully, “Adriano Capone.”Oh my God, he used his last name. I could practically feel the collective mental gasp ripple through the room.My dad’s brow twitched, “Italian?”“Yes,” he said smoothly, like he’d had this conversation before. “Sicilian heritage. My family settled in Chicago a few generations ago. Still have the old estate in Sicily but it's a bit too cold for my taste," he said it casually, like everyone had an estate and casually disliked winter in Italy.Stop sounding expensive, I wanted to scream.Everyone else just... stared.Uncle Jorginho had that face, the same one he made when our neighbor once pulled up in a BMW. That mix of suspicion and low-level awe.Sofi gasped, “Capone... Capone?” she asked, all wide eyes, “Like Al
Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡Steam curled around my ankles as I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel tightly around my body. The scent of coconut shampoo clung to my skin. Outside, the waves crashed against the shore like they had every morning of my childhood, but this time... I wasn’t alone.I padded into the bedroom, water still dripping from the ends of my hair, and found him exactly where I’d left him, sprawled across the bed, half-dressed, arms folded behind his head like he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked so completely “him” like that: gorgeous and infuriating and cocky all at once.I tossed the damp towel I’d used for my hair onto the back of a chair and crossed the room with a little bounce in my step.“Hey,” I said, leaning over him with my arms still clutching my towel to my chest. “You’ve got about twenty minutes before my family starts knocking on this door with questions. And believe me, they will knock.”Adriano didn’t move, he just opened one eye lazily
Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡The house hadn’t changed.The hallway still smelled of eucalyptus and floor polish. The walls were the same, they’d been when I was sixteen, and someone had finally fixed the creaky tile by the front door. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the photo frame still hanging crooked above the credenza, our last family vacation before they packed me up and sent me to the U.S.Now I was back here, alive, breathing and hugged within an inch of my life.But the only thing I could think about was the man who brought me here. Adriano Capone.I had only looked away for a second, just one blink, and when I turned back, he was gone. As if he was never here. As if I’d dreamed of the private jet bedroom and the fresh bandages and being lifted out of Jason's apartment. I couldn’t explain all of it, not to myself, not to my family. So I didn’t try.Instead, I let them talk.“Her hair is longer!” my aunt Patrícia gasped, hugging me from behind and stroking my c
Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡 I sniffled, swiping at my cheeks even though the tears kept falling. “I ended it with him…” There was a pause on the other end of the line, “You did good, meu amor,” Mae said gently, “Never let a man think it’s okay to yell at you. Ever.” “I know,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I know, but—” My breath shuddered, and the tears came harder. “He was sorry, Mae. Really sorry. What if he was dealing with something? What if I just left instead of trying to understand him?” “Não, Maddie,” she said, “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t twist it around. You did the right thing. You stood up for yourself, for your safety. That’s what matters.” I shook my head, pressing my forehead against the cold window as I stared at the rain streaking down the glass. “You don’t know him,” I said softly, “Not like I do.” “I don’t know him,” she said softly, “but I know you. I know how much it took for you to walk away. I know how hard you try to see the good in people, even wh
Adriano ⫘☠︎︎⫘ “Talk to me,” I said low into the phone, fingers threaded through Flan’s fur. “She’s safe, boss,” came the voice on the line. “After she clocked out from Velluto Rosso, she hopped a bus to the north side, Jason Reed’s place. Stayed the night on his couch. We had eyes on her the whole time. No threats. No contact with the ex. Apartment secure.” I exhaled slowly, jaw tight, pulse still roaring like it hadn’t gotten the message. Flan purred under my palm, as I stared out the window at nothing. My reflection was just a black shape in the glass. I could still see her face when she looked up at me yesterday, scared. She was scared of me. And all I wanted was to wrap my hands around her fear and crush it into dust. “How many men on her?” I asked finally. “Three on her at all times. Rotating every six hours. Cameras are up outside the building. Reed doesn’t know. Neither does she.” I nodded slowly, though no one could see it. My thumb dragged across the curve of Flan’
Told from Afar 𓎢𓎠𓎟𖦁𓎟𓎠𓎡 Alessia didn’t sleep. She didn’t even try. She lay in bed, stiff as a corpse, eyes locked on the ceiling as the hours dragged by like a funeral march. The dark pressed in around her. Sometimes she was crying without realizing it, silent tears soaking into the pillow. Sometimes her hands clenched the sheets in white-knuckled fists, rage humming beneath her skin. Mostly, she just waited. Waited for her phone to ring. Waited for a voice on the other end that made her sick. Waited for any sliver of proof that Silvio was still alive. Her thoughts spiraled. Was he cold? Was he bleeding out somewhere in the dark? Was he calling for her? By the time the sky started to pale with early morning light, her nerves were shot. Her throat ached. Her heart felt like it had been clawed out, stitched back in, and set on fire. And then, her phone lit up on the nightstand. It was Rino's number. Her breath caught in her throat. It rang once. She grabbed the phone