My Godfather is my Soulmate のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

Alexa's POVElsie's chilling threat, claiming I had killed her mother, still gnawed at me. It was a vicious, confusing accusation that ripped through the fragile calm I'd found in my design work. But as the initial shock faded, a cold certainty settled in. Elsie was a pawn. Her anger, misguided as it was, stemmed from the rot that was my father's creation. And in a twisted way, her desperate message only confirmed one thing: his world was truly falling apart.He was bleeding, financially and publicly. The fear in Elsie's voice was proof that my father was hurting. This wasn't a time for doubt or sentimentality. This was the moment to press the attack.I pushed my design sketches aside, the colorful fabrics and flowing lines suddenly seeming trivial in the face of the escalating war. I found my father's contact in my phone, the name that had once represented safety, then betrayal, and now, pure hatred. I stared at it for a long moment, picturing his face, the smug arrogance that was no

Alexa's POVThe chilling sight of my mother's blank eyes, the utter lack of recognition, replayed in my mind like a cruel, broken film. She was gone. The vibrant, loving woman who had been my world, reduced to a fragile shell that didn't even know her own daughter.The grief, held at bay by vengeance and ambition, surged forward, overwhelming and relentless. It consumed me, clawing at my throat, burning behind my eyes. A choked sob escaped me, then another, and another, until they became ragged, uncontrollable gasps. The tears came then, hot and stinging, a torrent I couldn't stop. I sank to my knees on the cold marble floor, the elegant silence of the hospital shattered by my raw, deep cries. I buried my face in my hands, trembling, rocking back and forth as pure, unadulterated despair washed over me.I cried my eyes out. For my mother, for the life she had lost, for the memories that were now trapped somewhere she couldn't reach. For the little girl who just wanted her mom back.A s

Don Antonio's POVI had spent the night in a restless doze, the simulated conversation with Mark J. replaying in my mind. The deception had been well-executed, I was sure of it. Mark would carry the message of my supposed reconsideration straight to Donald, giving him a false sense of security.Yet, despite the satisfaction of the strategic play, Mark's words lingered. He had spoken of our shared history, of decades of friendship, of times when Donald and I were practically brothers. These were echoes from a past I had meticulously buried, images I had fought to erase from my memory.I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, the rich aroma doing little to dispel the faint chill that had settled in my chest. I sat by the window, gazing out at the sprawling city skyline. I thought about everything Mark J. said. The early days, the forging of our empires, the loyalty, even the times I'd stood by Donald when others turned away. There were moments, fleeting and unwelcome, where a phantom pang

Alexa's POVThe air in the hospital room was thick enough to choke on. Don Antonio remained just inside the door, his eyes locked on my father. Dad, still slumped by my mother's bedside, met Don Antonio's gaze with a mixture of raw pain and a flicker of the old defiance. My mother lay between them, oblivious, her steady breathing the only calm sound in the storm.I was trapped in the middle, a silent spectator to a tension that felt like it could explode at any second. My head spun with the whirlwind of emotions – my own grief for my mother, the shocking revelations from my father, and now the terrifying presence of Don Antonio, who seemed ready to unleash a lifetime of suppressed rage.What was I supposed to do? My carefully constructed purpose, my clear path of vengeance with Don Antonio, had shattered into a million pieces the moment I saw my father's tears, and then even more so as I listened to his broken confession. The lines between right and wrong, hero and villain, had blurre

Alexa's POVThe word "Alexa?" hung in the air, a fragile, impossible gift. It was a sound I hadn't dared to dream of, a voice I thought was lost to me forever. My mother's eyes, though still hazy with the lingering effects of her long illness, were open, and they were looking at me. They knew me.My heart, which had been a lead weight in my chest for so long, suddenly soared. The world tilted, not in a dizzying spin of confusion, but in a sudden, overwhelming rush of pure, unadulterated joy. The bitter taste of revenge, the complex understanding of my father's brokenness, the heavy weight of Don Antonio's war – all of it, for that singular, miraculous moment, vanished into thin air.I moved without thinking, propelled by an instinct stronger than any calculated plan. My father, still frozen in his chair, seemed to fade from my view. I leaned over the bed, gently, so gently, as if she were a delicate bird that might fly away. My arms, trembling with emotion, wrapped around her frail s