Lahat ng Kabanata ng Indebted to the Mafia King: Kabanata 141 - Kabanata 150

Eleni“BWAH! BWAH! BWAH!”The screaming alarm—alarms—rip me out of sleep far too early. I grope for the nearest one, which turns out to be my phone, and silence it before even opening my eyes. Another keeps whining somewhere else in the room, and I groan.Last night is a blur of strobe lights, penis-shaped candy, and mob wives dancing like drunk sorority girls. As much as I’m going to kill whoever set all these alarms, at least my no-drinking rule means it’s only regular awful, not hungover awful.Another groan answers mine, and I shoot upright.I’m—where the fuck am I? Big, soft bed. Early morning light in the window. It’s shaped like the Staten Island house, but the colors—pink walls, purple bedspread, rainbow throw pillows….The second groan issues from the floor again, and I glance over the edge. Gianna lies there, makeup smeared across her face and hair falling out of the updo she slaved over last night. She looks distinctly green.“Kill it,” she mumbles. “With fire.”I’m in her

EleniI twist the ribbon around my deep purple bouquet and look out over the reception. The wives rented a massive ballroom in a hotel close enough to the church that we all walked over when the ceremony ended, and if you’d asked me to guess what Nicky thought a wedding reception should look like, I would’ve described exactly this. There’s nowhere in this place I can look without being confronted by something that sparkles or bears the exact “eggplant” and “pine forest” that are apparently our colors.Above every table, something that looks like a baby mobile made out of twinkle lights and strings of crystals hang. On the purple and green tablecloths sit the most ridiculous place settings I’ve ever seen. The gilt-edged china sports crossed flowers, a dusty green spring of something that looks more like leaves to me but which she said grow around the Acropolis and a sprig of Italian lilac, both also lined in gold. Apparently, they symbolize the joining of our houses. But what really ma

DanteMy wrists burn from twisting them against the zip cuffs, my ankles chafe from the same treatment around the legs of the chair, my shoulders ache from how far my arms have been pulled back, my faces throbs from how many times these goddamn bruisers have hit me, but all I can think about is El.I should be home in bed with her right now, fighting with whatever fiddly little fixtures they put on her wedding dress. She should be screaming my name. I should be screaming hers.Instead, I’m sitting in a musty-ass basement, bound to a metal chair under one flickering light like these assholes got their set-up right out of an ‘80s mafia movie. I spit blood on the concrete floor and look up at the man who “arrested” me in the middle of my goddamn wedding.“So tell me,” I say, “how do you go from Coppola to the Russians?”That, of course, earns me another punch to the face. I grit my teeth and take it.“Cuteness isn’t going to get you far,” Jace growls. “I’m here to get answers, and I’m ha

EleniTony hits the ground running in front of me, already yanking his gun out of his holster. Mikey fumbles with the door a second, but he’s out immediately after that, the carefully laid plan of the sniper rifle abandoned behind him. I slam down the pavement, thankful I abandoned my usual heels in favor of a pair of sneakers Gianna offered me silently before we left. Different windows of the apartment block light in bright bursts. Muzzle flashes, I know. The attendant pop of the gunfire follows on their heels, like thunder after lighting. People scatter out of our way. I grip my gun at my side. No sweat makes it slip. The leather warms in my palm as I run through scenarios.If they’re keeping Dante at the top, we’ll have to fight our way up. But that also means they’re vulnerable to attacks from above, if we had the time to set that up. I told someone to call in all the allies we have, but that doesn’t make a difference. It’s not like Cal or the triads are about to loan us a helicop

EleniI close my eyes on the floor in Dante’s arms and open them again somewhere warm and tan and lonely. Distantly, I can hear voices. My stomach aches.My stomach! I shoot up, yank up the “I Heart NYC” shirt covering my abdomen for some reason, and probe the skin there. I was shot. Someone—Fyodor, judging by how much nicer his suit was—shot me in the stomach, like he knew exactly who I was. But there’s no gaping bullet hole, not even a careful line of black stitches.Because I wore the stupid bulletproof vest, I’ve got a welt, a bruise so dark it’s almost black, and a hell of a headache from the bullet knocking me on my ass, and nothing more.The voices raise slightly, and a door I hadn’t noticed yet opens. Dante steps in wearing a matching T-shirt with his arm in a sling. Behind him, Dr. Domino frowns.“You’re up,” Dante says breathlessly.Everything hits me at once. He’s here. I’m here. We’re both alive. And I don’t think he’d be looking at me with that sunrise light in his eyes i