All Chapters of Owned By The Mafia Lord: Chapter 341 - Chapter 350

SARAHI woke up tangled in the sheets, the air still thick with salt and sweat. My skin still felt warm from the night before. My thighs ached in that slow, deep way that reminded me exactly what he did to me. I could still feel him. The soreness. The way he held me down. The way I kept begging him not to stop. It wasn’t pain. It was the kind of ache that makes you grin like an idiot before you even open your eyes.Light leaked in through the old shutters, soft and golden, cutting through the room like a quiet promise. I turned my head, still half-asleep, and there he was. Marco. Shirtless, sunk into the sheets like a king, one arm behind his head. That smug look already playing on his lips. Eyes half-lidded, watching me like he knew exactly what I was thinking.His hand slid over my hip, slow and lazy, like he was still claiming me.“You alive?” he muttered, voice rough and low, still soaked in sleep.I let out a small laugh, throat dry. “Barely. You didn’t give me a break.”His grin

SARAHSunlight slid across the bed, slow and warm, brushing over my legs and the tangle of white sheets. My head was still heavy with last night—his hands, the stars, the smell of wine on his skin. I didn’t want to move. But the light was too loud, too bright to ignore. I blinked, turning my head to see Marco still asleep beside me, mouth slightly open, hair a mess, arms thrown around me like he thought I might vanish in the middle of the night.I slipped out from under him, careful not to wake him. One of his shirts hung off the chair, so I grabbed it and threw it on. It swallowed me whole. I wandered toward the little kitchen sink, hunting for water. My throat was dry, my body sore in the good kind of way.Behind me, the bed creaked. “You’re getting up?” he muttered, voice rough, barely awake.“Barely,” I said, twisting open a bottle. “I need water. Or maybe coffee. Or a full body massage.”He groaned, sitting up and stretching like a damn lion. “How about we make it a real morning,

SARAH I woke up slow. The blanket was twisted around my legs, and Marco’s arm was heavy over my waist. He was out cold, face turned toward me, hair a mess, mouth just slightly open. For once, there was no tension in his jaw. No weight in his eyes. Just quiet. I laid there a second, staring at him. It hit me how rare it was to see him like this—calm, soft, breathing easy. I smiled, small and to myself. The morning light slipped through the cracks in the old shutters, soft and pale. You could hear birds now, and the faint sound of waves somewhere close. No rain. Just peace. I moved slow, careful not to wake him. His fingers twitched when I slipped out from under his arm, but he didn’t stir. I grabbed my damp clothes off the chair near the fireplace. Still wet. I crouched by the faint embers, trying to wring the shirt out, shaking it out near the ash. My body shivered, but I didn’t mind it. There was something about the cold that felt honest. Behind me, I heard a grunt. “You try

SARAH I stood in front of the mirror, staring at the red dress hanging from the closet door. I’d taken it out twice this week and put it right back. But tonight, I didn’t. I slipped it on slowly, careful with the zipper, smoothing it over my hips. It clung just right. The room was quiet, just the soft buzz of the ceiling fan and the sound of my own breath. I sat down at the small vanity table, picked up the mascara wand, and paused. My hand wasn’t shaking. First time in weeks. I curled my lashes, dabbed a bit of color on my cheeks. Nothing too much. I didn’t want to look like I was pretending. I just wanted to look like myself again. I ran a brush through my hair, slow and steady, letting the strands fall loose over my shoulders. Not styled, not done up—just me. Real. My reflection started to look familiar again. My skin had some color. My lips weren’t cracked. My eyes didn’t look hollow. I stood up and took a deep breath. Slid my bare feet across the tile floor to the mirror a

THIRD PERSON It was past midnight. The backroom of a rundown bar off the Amalfi coast sat dead quiet. The main lights were off, just a bare bulb hanging over the table where three men sat like ghosts. Blood stained Angelo’s white button-down. His nose was stuffed with gauze, and his left eye was swollen shut. Enzo had his wrist wrapped in an old t-shirt, twisted tight into a splint with two knives and duct tape. Stefano sat sideways in his chair, holding his ribs with both arms like he was afraid they’d fall apart. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy. Humid with shame, reeking of sweat, liquor, and dried blood. No one made eye contact. Enzo finally broke. “You believe that shit? One guy. One old fuckin’ guy.” Stefano grunted. “Didn’t even pull heat. Just walked in with his hands and made us look like amateurs.” Angelo’s knuckles hit the table. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to rattle the ashtray. “In front of everyone,” he hissed. “People we grew up with. Guys wh