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Preparing For The Turf War
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2025-11-15 08:00:44CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE
BRENTA RIVER, ITALY The Brenta River’s banks were dark and silent, the water a black ribbon under the moonless sky. For days, I’d been moving my men into position, silent as death, taking out Ricci’s scouts one by one, knives to throats, bodies dumped in the current. My crew slipped into their places, wearing stolen jackets with Ricci’s crest, posing as his own. Each night, we tightened our grip, setting up a makeshift base in an abandoned warehouse along the river, crates of ammo and guns stacked in the shadows. No one saw us. No one heard us. We were fucking ghosts. Dante was holding the west, just like I told him, his men ready to carve up Ricci’s smaller turfs in Treviso and Mestre. He was in position, waiting for my signal to strike, a wolf on a leash, and I knew he was itching to tear into something.
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CYNTHIA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – The final 48 hoursThe fortress was quiet the way a loaded gun is quiet.My mistress and Dante had disappeared behind their door and hadn’t emerged in twenty-four hours.The sounds that leaked through the walls told everyone exactly what they were doing with the time we might not have.I didn’t begrudge them.I understood.At hour 26, Voronin found me in the armory.He looked wrecked.He didn’t speak at first.He just dropped to his knees in front of me, hands on my thighs, forehead pressed to my stomach.“Please,” he rasped. “One last time. Let me remember what it felt like to be inside you when the world still made sense.”I should have said no.Instead I threaded my fingers through his hair and pulled him up.Four hours.That’s what we gave ourselves.We didn’t make it out of the armory.I shoved him onto a crate
My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent Their Indulgence
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE VORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – The final 48 hoursThe door locked with a click that sounded like a starting gun.Dante didn’t speak. He just looked at me, eyes black with forty-eight hours of borrowed time, and crossed the room in three strides.His mouth crashed into mine, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, tasting blood and desperation.I ripped his shirt open; buttons pinged off the wall. He yanked my tank over my head, bra following, palms immediately cupping my breasts, thumbs dragging hard over my nipples until I hissed.We didn’t make it to the bed.He spun me, slammed my front to the nearest wall, kicked my legs wide, and shoved my fatigues and panties down in one violent motion.Cool air hit my soaked cunt a second before his fingers did, three at once, no warning, stretching me open while his other hand fisted my hair and arched my neck back.“Mine,” he gr
My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent Fortifying The Final Battle Plan
CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – War Room, 03:14 a.m.The air in the bunker tasted of cordite, metal, and the kind of rage that doesn’t fade with sunrise.One overhead bulb flickered, carving jagged shadows over the table.Satellite photos were pinned down with knives, their edges curling like scorched flesh.The red circle around Cape Fiolent looked like a fresh bullet wound.I stood at the head of the table, palms flat against cold steel, knuckles white enough to crack. Every muscle in my arms felt wired to a detonator.Dante was a wall of heat at my back. Close enough that I felt each breath he took drag against my spine.Not touching.He knew better.If he touched me right now, one of us would break. And neither of us had the luxury.Voronin cleared his throat, voice gravel ground into glass.“Forty-eight hours until the moon is dark enough. After that, the cliff is lit lik
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CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Three nights after the reunionThe war room smelled of gun oil, coffee, and scorched pride.The kind of smell that seeps into your skin and stays there like a reminder that sleep is optional and vengeance isn’t.Voronin had returned at dawn, eyes blood-shot but steady, family safely hidden in a dacha outside Arkhangelsk.He walked in, dropped a duffel of detonators on the table, and simply said, “I’m all in.”No theatrics. No speeches. Just a man who’d decided dying was preferable to running.Now the table was covered in satellite photos, blueprints, and a single red marker circling one location.Gavriil’s new primary residence, an old Soviet naval fortress on Cape Fiolent, rebuilt into a cliffside palace of concrete and paranoia.I stood at the head of the table in black fatigues, hair braided tight, the black-gold ring now hanging on a chain around m
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