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Chapter Seventy- Two: The King's Tears
Dernière mise à jour:
2025-12-02 19:26:55
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The king of Ashes Chapter Nighty Eight : The First Shot
(Alessandro’s POV) I held my queen in my arms, the victor of a battle of whispers. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that the war was about to be fought with blood. The morning after our dinner with the Falcones broke with a deceptive, beautiful peace. I woke to the scent of coffee and the soft sound of Isabella humming in the kitchen. I found her there, wearing one of my white shirts that was far too big for her, her beautiful hair a messy tangle, her feet bare on the cool marble floor. She looked so soft, so happy, so wonderfully normal. For a moment, the king, the Don, the monster of Chicago, simply vanished. I was just a man, watching the woman he loved make breakfast. “Good morning,” she said, her smile as bright and as warm as the morning sun streaming through the windows. “Good morning, my queen,” I replied, my voice a low, happy rumble. I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. I buried my f
The king of Ashes Chapter Ninety-Seven : A Queen's Victory
(Alessandro’s POV) Isabella’s words fell into the silence of the grand dining room like shards of ice. They were quiet, but they cut deeper than any shout, sharper than any blade. “I am what keeps his heart beating. And a word of advice: you should be far more concerned about what happens when it stops.” I watched, completely and utterly captivated, as Lorenzo Falcone’s charming, arrogant mask finally shattered. For a split second, I saw past the handsome politician to the man beneath, and he was consumed by a raw, unrestrained fury. But there was something else in his eyes, too. A flicker of fear. He had expected to face a king, and he had prepared for that. He had never, in his wildest calculations, prepared to be so thoroughly and elegantly destroyed by a queen. She had not raised her voice. She had not cried. She had not shown a single ounce of the weakness he had been so desperate to expose. Instead, she had met his condescending attack with a quiet, chilling threat tha
The king of Ashes Chapter Ninety-Six : The Wolf's Den
(Isabella’s POV) The night of the dinner arrived with a cold, electric tension. This was not a social call. It was a summons. A battle to be fought not with guns, but with smiles as sharp as knives and words as deadly as bullets. I stood before the mirror in our bedroom, looking at my reflection, and took a deep breath. I was nervous, my heart a fluttery, anxious thing in my chest. But underneath the nerves, a cold, hard resolve was beginning to form. They wanted to see the Rossi girl, the king’s weakness. I would show them his queen instead. Alessandro came up behind me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. He was already dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that made him look like a beautiful, dangerous shadow. He looked at my reflection in the mirror, his golden eyes searching mine. “They will try to make you feel small tonight,” he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. “They will test you. They will try to get under your skin. Do not let them see any weakness.
The king of Ashes Chapter Ninety-Five : The Whispers Begin
(Isabella’s POV) The days that followed Alessandro’s meeting with Don Gallo were a strange, unsettling blend of profound intimacy and escalating tension. In the quiet sanctuary of our penthouse, we were Alessandro and Isabella, a man and a woman deeply in love, planning a future together. We would talk for hours, late into the night, about our dreams, about a life that felt impossibly far from the bloodshed and power struggles that defined our world. He would hold me, his touch a silent promise of protection, and in those moments, I could almost forget the storm brewing outside our walls. But outside, the political war was raging. We could feel it, a subtle shift in the air, a colder current in the unspoken conversations. Don Gallo had not declared his allegiance. His silence was deafening, a powerful endorsement that neither Falcone nor Alessandro could claim. It kept everyone guessing, created a vacuum of uncertainty that fueled the whispers. And the whispers began. They w
The king of Ashes Chapter Ninety-Four: The Old Lion's Den
(Alessandro’s POV) The hours after my call to Don Gallo were a strange, quiet lull in a war that had been raging for what felt like a lifetime. The old Don had agreed to a meeting, his voice a low, gravelly rumble over the phone, full of a cautious curiosity. He had set the time and the place: his home, that evening. Alone. It was not a request; it was a summons. A test. I spent the rest of the day in a state of controlled, focused preparation. This was not a battle I could win with a gun. It was a battle of words, of wills, of ideologies. It was a fight for the soul of the Commission. As the sun began to set, casting long, dark shadows across the city, I began to get ready. I was not putting on tactical gear or body armor. I was putting on a suit, a dark, perfectly tailored piece of armor for a different kind of battlefield. Isabella was with me, a quiet, calming presence in the tense silence of our bedroom. She watched as I fastened my cufflinks, her expression a mix of lo
The king of Ashes Chapter Ninety-Three: Our Fight
(Alessandro’s POV) The silence in the grand ballroom was a heavy, expectant thing. I looked at the faces around the table: Don Gallo, the old traditionalist, his expression stern and unyielding; Don Caruso, the pragmatist, his eyes calculating the political cost; the nervous new Bianchi Don, desperate for a peace he had never known. And Lorenzo Falcone, the serpent who had orchestrated this entire play, his face a mask of false sincerity, waiting for me to walk into his perfectly constructed cage. They were all waiting for my answer. They were waiting for me to choose between my crown and my queen. My first instinct was a primal, violent rage. I wanted to flip the table. I wanted to put a bullet in Falcone’s smug, handsome face. I wanted to burn this entire, rotten system to the ground for daring to even suggest that Isabella, my Isabella, was disposable. But I was not just a man anymore. I was a king. And a king does not show his rage. He uses it. I took a slow, deliberate
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