All Chapters of His Pretty Little Liar - The Devil’s Snare - Book 1: Chapter 331 - Chapter 340

"What's your father got to do with all this?" I interjected, my curiosity piqued by the tangled web of their relationships."His name carries weight in the Puro organisation," he replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "He has always harboured a disdain for any mixing of blood that doesn't ensure our lineage remains purely Italian. All those arguments centred around Alexandra must have sent him reeling into the depths of her family's past. His supposed change of heart was nothing more than a pretence; he knew exactly who fathered her and grudgingly accepted her heritage, even if it bruised his pride in the process. And as an act of defiance, he never revealed to me who the fuck I married and honestly what that meant for his sideline organisation.""So?" I frowned, feeling the gravity of his words sink in, the implications heavy in the air between us. Aurelio fucking Debois is behind this as much as Derek Densel is? And where does Giovanni fit into all this?"Alex is... was a Dense

Continued:I watch, captivated, as Benji pulls out a small, intricate device hidden in his jeans pocket, his fingers moving deftly over the buttons while he mutters numbers under his breath. A flickering green light illuminates the door, bathing us in an eerie glow as it swings open, creaking softly as it reveals a passage shrouded in darkness."Keep an eye out for my father. When he starts coming back from Giovani's, we need to have enough time to bring her back," Benji instructs, urgency lacing his tone as he addresses the men that accompanied us here."And the loop?" One of the men interjects, his brow furrowed in concern."It's an hour. Don't let me be late," Benji replies, determination etched on his face.He seizes my hand with a sudden, firm grip, pulling me through the threshold into the shadowy tunnel that looms before us like a gaping hole. The air is thick with the earthy scent of moist soil, and the temperature drops rapidly the further we walk. Tiny droplets of water clin

Continued: I suspect the old men never truly intended to relinquish their titles. It seems they've conspired among themselves, weaving a complex scheme to return with greater strength than ever before. But if that's the case, why resort to faking their own deaths? Was that elaborate ruse simply another piece in their master plan, or was there something more sinister at play? If I'm right, the layers of deception hint at a deeper game, one where power is clung to with an iron grip, even from beyond the grave. "Aurelio was no ordinary demon; calling him a demon barely scratched the surface of his malevolence. He ruled with an iron fist, a relentless grip that allowed for no semblance of error or defiance. His edicts were equally unforgiving, crafted from a mindset that thrived on domination. Frequently, he would rattle on about "puro" this and "puro" that, an insatiable obsession with bloodlines that consumed his very being. He surrounded himself with loyal henchmen, tasked with the m

Niko As the boat glides away from the shore, it plunges into an oppressive silence that plays tricks on my mind, amplifying every whisper of the wind and the soft lapping of waves against the hull. A wave of anticipation surges within me at the thought of reuniting with Bianca, but beneath that excitement lies a disquieting suspicion about how our subsequent encounter will unfold. Aurelio's shadow now looms large in my thoughts, and I can't shake the feeling that he is somehow entwined in this situation. The revelation that Bianca is a weapon—of the humankind—is a chilling truth that sends shivers down my spine. Its weight is almost too much to bear. If Mitchel's warnings hold any truth, then I find myself drawn into a perilous game whose rules I do not fully comprehend. Yet, oddly enough, the idea of fighting with every ounce of my being to protect Bianca doesn't daunt me; instead, it ignites a flicker of determination within me, igniting a fire I never knew burned so fiercely. A

Continued:"Who, sir?" the man at the table Derek stands at stutters, his unease evident as he shifts under Derek's unwavering gaze."Franko, I need him," Derek replies, his tone sharp and unforgiving, his impatience evident as if the question itself is a trivial annoyance. I dare not turn around, my back rigid against the demands of the moment, feeling the weight of anticipation pressing heavily on my shoulders."He's in the IT room, planning, sir," the man offers cautiously, like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. Relief floods his tone, shifiting his voice an octave lower."Good. We need it done now," Derek growls, his footfalls formidable and echoing against the walls of the now hushed canteen, which has lost all semblance of the lively chatter that once filled the air.I squeeze my eyes shut against the rising anxiety, half-expecting him to notice us—or, more precisely, me—beside the towering shadow of his son's presence. The feeling of being an intruder in this space washe