Todos os capítulos de Mafia's Runaway And Pregnant: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

CamilaI wonder how many different ways I can rearrange the potatoes on my plate without actually putting any in my mouth. So far, I’ve created a snowman, a three-legged dog, and a pretty decent interpretation of the Eiffel Tower. They’re still warm, which seems impossible. Because I swear I’ve been sitting here forever.My mother sits to my left—she hasn’t eaten either, but she’s on her second glass of wine. Yannick watches us from across the table. His appetite is just fine. The food on his plate is half gone, and he stabs a chunk of steak, dragging it through the bloody juices before bringing it to his mouth.My stomach gives a heave as his lips smack.From the nearby room, Roman cries out excitedly. The noise of him clacking his toys together has been the only thing keeping the dinner from being entirely silent. He joined us for all of five minutes before he finished his meal and asked to be excused.I’ve never seen a kid shovel down a meal as fast as Roman did. Yannick watched th

AsherThe bullet wound in my shoulder still burns days later. The cuts on my hands from shattered glass are barely healed. A normal man might have taken time to rest up and heal, but I don’t have the luxury of wasting a single second. There are more pressing matters at hand.Turning the wooden bat in my fist, I slap it into my opposite palm. Blood flicks from the bat, staining the front of my shirt. Mila stands behind me, watching with a bored expression on her face as I turn my attention back to the object of my fury.“Stop, God, please fucking stop!” Sergio roars.“Damn,” I mutter. “Maybe wearing white was a bad idea. Then again, your black clothing isn’t helping you much, now that I think about it.”Sergio’s shirt collar and shoulders are soaked with blood from his broken mouth. Every wheezing breath he takes or desperate cry he makes sends more red splattering onto the material. “Asher Volkov … stop this. I’m begging you.”“Not until you tell me where Yannick took my wife.”“I don

CamilaYannick is staring at his hands. He links his fingers, twists them, creating every possible position his joints can manage.“Once upon a time,” he starts, “I had a son. Pyotr.” His eyes close like someone threw salt in them, his lips making a sour frown. “I loved him more than anything or anyone in this world.”He had another son? The past tense is a megaphone. My blood seems to thicken in my veins.Fondness enters his eyes, warming them. “Pyotr was always a wild child. That’s natural, of course. He was a prince of the Bratva, and my future heir.” His hands twist, the brittle mood returning tenfold. “Back then, Asher was my brigadier. I trusted him with everything. With my life and my son’s life.”My stomach drops out from beneath me. I know where this is going, and I need to stop it. I want to clasp my hands over his mouth or run away while covering my ears. But I can’t move, and Yannick presses on.“He was supposed to keep my boy safe.” Those hands wring until all the blood f

CamilaI don’t have a home anymore.That’s the only thought running through my head as I stare up at the familiar sight of Asher’s mansion. The car rumbles along the driveway. The spiked gates look exactly as I remember. The yards with trimmed grass, the distant rose garden, the extravagant water fountains, and the perfect painted exterior …Nothing has changed since I was here.But I have.Both Yannick and my mother are vying for my attention inside my head. Each of them whispers their own warning in the back of my mind.He was supposed to keep my boy safe. And instead, he killed him.Our monsters may wear different faces. But they’re the same.I want to silence the voices in my head, but I can’t.Once we park, Asher clambers out to help me from the car. I ignore him to step out on my own. A wave of déjà vu washes over me. It feels just like the first time I arrived here. I rejected his offer that time as well. The only thing missing is the blindfold he placed over my eyes.His face

AsherIf I could live the rest of my life with my hands never leaving Camila’s body, I would. The space between us—tiny as it is—is pure agony. It leaves me feeling cold, as if I’m being covered in black frost. But I have to endure the distance for a few seconds longer, just enough time that I can slip the prayer beads onto her wrist again.Camila lifts her arm and looks at the wooden beads with an inscrutable expression in her eyes. Seeing them on her wrist again slows my heartbeat somewhat. It looks right. It feels right. And I can’t help feeling the same thought that rushed through my head during our wedding:Somewhere along the way, Camila became mine.Not just as something to possess, but as someone to treasure.To shield.To protect.To love.The thought goads me to action. I close the tiny gap between us, positioning myself over her on the bed. As soon as I do, I embrace her again, tightening my grip around her back and waist.“God, I missed you,” I whisper into her hair.Her t