All Chapters of The Mafia's Mercy: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

I eye my fork as I absently push the scrambled eggs around my plate, the sound of the clinking mixing with the sound of my breathing as I sit at the dining table alone. It’s been two days since Marcel shut down my idea of going back to school—two days of us not saying a word to each other. We’re like parallel lines, destined never to meet, stretching further apart with each passing moment. But as much as I’d like to cling to my righteous indignation, I know today is not the day to be stubborn. Today is the day I face the reality of the life growing inside me, the day I take the first step in my journey to motherhood. I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor as a sigh parts my lips. The sound is unsettling in the stillness of the morning, and for a moment, I pause, half-expecting Marcel to appear in the doorway. He doesn’t. It dawns on me with a twinge of sadness that he’s probably holed up in his office, dealing with the

⊰ Marcel ⊱ The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles like a heavy blanket—smothering and unsettling. Too damn quiet. It’s been weeks since Luciano took the reins of his brother’s cartel, weeks since he vowed vengeance against me for killing Rafael. Weeks… and not a single threat, not a bullet fired in our direction. It’s the stillness before the storm, the type of calm that makes my men jumpy and my own skin itch with an uneasiness. They’re planning something, I can feel it in my bones. The question is: what? And more importantly, how do I keep my family safe? “We can’t let them have the advantage,” Levi mutters, his eyes narrowing as he studies the maps spread across the pool table of the parlor. “I know,” I grunt lowly, tracing a line along the border of our territory with my finger. “We tighten up security, deploy more men—” “No good,” Rick, ever the cautious strategist,

Content Advisory: This chapter contains graphic violence, including physical assault. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Fear gnaws at my insides as Alessandra and I glance at each other, slowly lowering ourselves back into our seats. My hand drifts protectively to my stomach, an instinctual desire to shield my unborn child. Luciano grabs a chair, the metal scraping harshly against the linoleum floor as he drags it to our table sinisterly. He sits down, leaning back with a casual air. I watch as Catalina moves, taking the empty seat next to Alessandra, directly across from me. Her gaze is fixed on me, her eyes glinting with a cold hatred that sends a shiver down my spine. We’re gonna die here… “I don’t think I need to introduce myself,” Luciano begins, his accented voice smooth and even. “You already know who I am.” He’s right. We do. He’s the new head of the Reyes cartel—the man who vo

The world feels hazy as Alessandra and I step into the mansion, the warm glow of lights and the sound of laughter washing over me like a distant dream. It’s surreal, being back here, surrounded by the trappings of a life that feels like it belongs to someone else now—someone who still had hope, who still believed in happily ever afters. As we approach the front steps, my eyes land on the familiar men—Amado and Miguel—standing guard. From behind them, Frank emerges, making his way to Alessandra’s car to retrieve the shopping bags. He walks past us, his eyes briefly meeting mine as he asks, “Everything okay, ma’am?” I force a smile, the muscles of my face feeling stiff and unnatural. “Everything’s fine, Frank. Thank you.” He nods, but I can see the flicker of doubt in his eyes as we continue our way past Amado and Miguel, into the main entrance hall. Marcel is waiting for us, his dark eyes immediately locking onto me. For a moment, I’m ter

The familiar scent of Marcel’s cologne fills my senses as my eyes flutter open, mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol lingering in the air. Despite its disruptive presence, it’s a smell I’ve gotten used to, a smell that’s oddly comforting. Blinking against the soft light filtering through the curtains, I turn my head to find him sitting on the sofa across the room, a glass of scotch in his hand and a dark look on his face. His gun rests on the coffee table beside the half-empty decanter, a silent reminder of the violence that’s become our new normal. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are rolled up, exposing the taut muscles and tattoos of his forearms. He hasn’t slept. … He’s been out all night again, doing God knows what. It’s been two days since the incident, two days since my world shattered into a million jagged pieces. Marcel’s hardly left my side, only stepping out to deal with the fallout of L