All Chapters of Owned By The Mafia Lord: Chapter 351 - Chapter 360

ANGELO I woke up with sweat on my chest and blood in my mouth. The fan above was dead. The air was heavy, full of mildew, smoke, and piss. My shirt stuck to me, soaked from another night of tossing around on this rat-ass mattress. My ribs felt like someone had jammed glass inside me. My eye was still shut halfway, purple and puffed. Lip cracked open again when I sat up. Two days. That’s how long it’s been since that prick laid hands on me. Marco fucking De Luca. He didn’t just beat me—he humiliated me. In front of everyone. I reached over for the pack of smokes, pulled one out with shaky fingers, and lit it with my busted lighter. My hand trembled from the pain but I didn’t care. Took a deep drag, then pushed off the bed, feet hitting the tile with a loud slap. Everything in my body screamed. From my jaw to my back. But I stood anyway. Dragged myself to the small balcony. The door creaked like it hadn’t been opened in years. Outside, Naples smacked me in the face with i

THIRD PERSON Sarah woke slowly, the morning light slipping through the curtains, soft and quiet. Marco’s arm was draped across her waist, his chest warm against her back. She didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, breathing him in. His body was relaxed, heavier than usual, like he was finally getting real sleep. “Still alive?” she mumbled. Marco grunted behind her. “Barely. You tried to drown me last night.” She smiled, eyes still shut. “You pushed me in first.” He shifted, pulling her closer. “Self-defense.” She laughed, soft. “You call that self-defense? I saw the way you were smiling. You liked it.” Marco pressed his lips to the back of her shoulder. “I liked seeing you laugh.” Sarah rolled over slowly to face him. His eyes were half-open now, soft, no edge to them. She ran a hand through his hair, fingers brushing along his temple. “You look peaceful,” she said. He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her. Really looked. Then he said, “Yeah… it’s been a wh

SARAH I woke up slow, the kind of slow where you don’t know what time it is and don’t care. The room was quiet, soft light pouring in through the curtains. It smelled like coffee and warm air. The sheets were tangled around my legs. I stretched, let my head sink into the pillow for one more minute. Then I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and yawned. Marco’s shirt was hanging off the edge of the chair. I grabbed it, pulled it on. It was loose on me, warm from the sun, and smelled like his skin—clean and faintly like smoke and that cologneo his. I padded out of the bedroom barefoot. The hallway was quiet, only the low hum of the espresso machine in the kitchen and a soft voice humming in Italian. The maid. Marco’s voice came next, low and smooth, saying something I couldn’t catch. I stepped into the kitchen and saw him standing there, shirtless, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world. The maid was pouring two tiny cups of espresso. He looked over his shoulder at me a

ANGELO We slammed the door behind us, loud as hell, like we owned the whole goddamn building. The hallway lights flickered as we walked in, laughing, shoulders bumping. Cigarettes lit up in seconds. Miguel already had a bottle in hand, popping the cap with his teeth like he’d done it a hundred times before. The radio kicked on with some dirty rock track from the ’90s—loud, fast, angry. Fit the mood perfect. We were still buzzed from the hit. Clothes smelled like smoke. Hands smelled like dust. Marco’s place was all over us. Vincenzo dropped into the ripped couch and kicked his boots up on the coffee table like a king. “Shit,” he said, exhaling. “That was fuckin’ art, boys.” Miguel tossed his hoodie on the floor and pulled the duffel onto the center table. “Time for the goddamn cherry,” he said, unzipping it like he was opening a gift. First thing out—black velvet box. He popped it open and whistled. “Cufflinks. Real silver. Monogrammed.” “Sell it to some asshole in a suit,”

THIRD PERSON The town was dead quiet. He walked alone down the alley, boots soft on the old cobblestone. No cars. No bikes. No sounds but a distant dog barking and the low buzz of a flickering streetlamp above. Italy was asleep. He wasn’t. He never rode. Never used a phone. Never talked unless it mattered. Everything he needed was in his head. His name didn’t matter. But to the ones who knew, he was the Executioner. He lit a cigarette, sucked in slow. The smoke didn’t taste good, but it gave him a second to breathe. His mind stayed on the job, but something else pulled at him underneath. A soft voice in the back of his head. After this, you go home. Back to her. Back to peace. He exhaled, then walked. Marco gave him the first name. Angelo. That was the top of the chain. But Angelo didn’t do jobs alone. From the intel, the rest of the crew was Vincenzo, Enzo, Miguel. Cowards. They didn’t go quiet, and they didn’t hide. That made this easier. He took another drag. T