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Chapter Eighty-Two: The Siege
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2025-06-07 21:59:07
Jhumie_writesThis is no longer just a game of secrets, it’s full blown war. Three mafia families joined forces to end Lucien, but they didn’t count on the man who built his empire in blood and fire. And they sure as hell didn’t count on the woman who’s becoming his anchor. Emilia’s in danger. Lucien’s snapping. And someone inside the house let them in. Who’s the mole? One thing’s for sure, Lucien Moretti won’t stop until every last traitor bleeds. —xx, JW
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Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Eighty-Two: The Siege
Lucien woke to the sound of death.A single gunshot cracked the air, close. Too close. He was up in seconds, instincts kicking in before thought. The warmth of Emilia’s body still lingered on his skin, but it was gone now, swallowed by the cold rush of danger.Another shot rang out, louder. Closer.Emilia gasped behind him, sitting up and clutching the sheets. “Lucien...”“Get dressed,” he snapped, already moving. He yanked open the drawer beside the bed, retrieved his Glock, checked the magazine. Loaded. Safety off.Emilia scrambled off the bed, grabbing the silk robe and the handgun he’d given her weeks ago, the one she’d kept hidden in the drawer near her vanity. Her hands shook, but her eyes were clear.Lucien’s gaze swept over her once. Good. She was scared, but she was steady.“Stay here,” he ordered, yanking on black pants, no shirt, no time. He grabbed a jacket that concealed his holster, slinging it over his shoulders as another burst of rapid fire echoed from somewhere downs
Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Eighty-One: Whispers in the Sheets
Emilia woke to heat.Not the kind from sunlight or warm sheets, but the kind that curled low in her belly, electric and spreading fast.She gasped, her back arching against the silk sheets as Lucien’s mouth worked her over with slow, devastating precision. His hands held her hips in place, tongue moving in deliberate strokes that made her thighs tremble.“Lucien,” she breathed, half asleep, dazed, still unsure if this was real.He didn’t stop. He looked up at her from between her legs, eyes dark and intent.“Morning,” he murmured against her, voice low and hungry.She bit her lip, toes curling. “You… God, this isn’t fair.”His chuckle vibrated against her clit. “I’ve been distracted lately. Let me make it up to you.”And he did.Again and again, until she was moaning his name and shaking under him, her release crashing over her like a storm.When he finally climbed up her body and kissed her, slow, messy, and full of heat, she was breathless and smiling.“Good morning,” she said weakl
Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Eighty: Velvet&Fire
Lucien pushed open the door to the master suite, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt with one hand. He wasn’t expecting anything unusual, just darkness, maybe the soft breath of Emilia already asleep beneath the covers. The night had been long, burdened with whispers from Navarro and the ever-present stench of ambition from lesser men.But the moment he stepped into the room, the air shifted.The lights were dimmed. Candlelight glowed on the vanity. The fireplace crackled low, throwing warm gold across the bed and the marble floor. But it wasn’t the fire that stopped Lucien in his tracks.It was her.Emilia stood at the foot of the bed, her body wrapped in deep crimson lace. Thin straps curved over her shoulders and disappeared into a bodice that hugged her waist before giving way to garters and sheer stockings. The lingerie was decadent, delicate yet powerful, seductive without asking for attention.She wasn’t waiting passively. She was standing still, watching him, daring him.Lucien
Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Seventy-Nine: Whispers of the Vulture
Lucien had never trusted silence.Not the kind that filled a room after a storm, or the pause before a shot was fired, but the silence that came wrapped in civility. The kind that settled when too many men smiled at once. The kind Raúl Navarro carried with him wherever he went.Lucien sat in his office, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth, when the knock came.Julio entered, sharp as ever, though tension clung to his shoulders.“Navarro is here,” he said. “He’s asking to speak with you.”Lucien didn’t look up immediately. He reached for the tumbler of bourbon at his elbow, swirled it once, then finally turned his gaze to Julio. “That man shows up unannounced, as always. Did he say why he’s here?”“No. Only that it’s important, and that it concerns information you might want to hear.”That earned a slight shift in Lucien’s posture.Raúl Navarro didn’t come bearing gifts. If he was here, it was either to peddle lies or beg for crumbs.Lucien stood. “Send him in.”Julio nodded
Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Seventy-Eight: The House Of Masks
The house had grown quieter since the summit.Not in the obvious sense. Guards still moved through the halls, weapons slung across their shoulders; Julio’s voice still echoed from Lucien’s office when he argued strategy late into the night. But the silence felt different now. Intentional. Studied.Emilia felt it in the way conversations stopped when she entered the room. In the way some glances lingered too long', or not long enough.Someone inside these walls was betraying Lucien.She could feel it.But if there was even a chance that the traitor had ears in the right places, she couldn’t risk tipping her hand. Not yet.So she smiled. Observed. And started playing the game in silence.She began her mornings earlier, walking the hallways before Lucien even stirred from bed. A silk robe wrapped tightly around her, bare feet on cold marble, she’d pass by the kitchens, the training yard, the armory. Listening. Watching.The staff had learned to acknowledge her now, but just barely.Espec
Sold To The Mafia Lord Chapter Seventy-Seven: Royal Blood and Broken Vows
The estate of Santiago de la Cruz was not built for men like him.It loomed over the valley like a relic of a time before greed had names and crime wore silk. Old stone, iron gates, and a silence that whispered of blood soaked into the roots of the land. The guards didn’t search him when he arrived. They didn’t need to. Men like the Vulture didn’t get this far unless the king inside allowed it.He adjusted his cufflinks as he was led through arched corridors, past statues of saints and sinners, each one cracked by age or battle. Santiago’s legacy. Etched in stone. Revered in silence.The Vulture hated it.Because it reminded him of what he didn’t have.No name carved in marble. No bloodline. No sons who bore his mark. Just ambition and a tongue sharp enough to carve kingdoms from empires.He was ushered into a grand courtyard, where Santiago de la Cruz sat beneath an olive tree, dressed in linen and shadow, sipping espresso like a man who had never once spilled blood, though the world
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