Todos los capítulos de The Mafia’s Angel Ordeal.: Capítulo 171 - Capítulo 180

The sun beat down as we gathered at the cemetery, a sea of black filling the field. The air buzzed with murmurs and shuffling feet. Everyone wore black. The police. The people. The priest is standing by the open grave. Even I was covered head to toe in black, a light scarf tight around my hair. I didn’t want attention — just for this to be over.Doris’s casket lay before us, her photo resting on what was left of her. The news had said her body was blown apart in the explosion. I watched as the casket was lowered into the earth, soil spilling onto the lid.People kept brushing my arms as they passed, offering hollow condolences, their faces strained with pity. It was laughable if it wasn’t sickening.When it was time, I stepped forward for my eulogy. "My best friend... my light," I said steadily. "When I had nothing, Doris came through for me. When my world collapsed, she stood tall beside me. Doris was there for me on my worst days.”I paused, squeezing fake tears from my eyes.“E

The air was thick with a foul, deathly presence. Nausea rose, choking me. I fought to hold it down, but my stomach twisted, the bitter taste rising.Blood. Fresh. Dark. Everywhere. A stark stain on the cold concrete. It pooled in the corners, a chilling testament to what had happened here. My hands flew to my mouth, holding back the bile. My feet cemented to the ground, my body paralysed by the horror before me.Ahead, a steel autopsy table gleamed under a surgical lamp. Dried blood smeared its edges. Shackles hung from the sides, the stench of bleach and decay churning my stomach.To the left—glass display cases. Not for trophies. For weapons. Lined neatly: silenced pistols, blood-crusted knives, bone saws, scalpels, and syringes half-filled with amber liquid. A blood streaked sledgehammer rested casually against the wall like it had just been used.My stomach twisted as I backed into the wall, gripping the frame to avoid falling. My hands, knees, and lips were all shaking.A body

I was still shaking. My ragged breaths echoed in the sterile hallway, the air thick with antiseptic. My hands trembled, the pain and marks on my wrists a sharp reminder that I was tied up overnight. But no pain or sting of anxiety could compare to the uncertainty that clung to me as they rushed Dontrell through the ER doors.Clayton was by his side—almost too close, as if he could somehow will his brother to live just by being there. His jaw was clenched so tight, his teeth might crack. His eyes were haunted, desperate, masking everything beneath his stone façade. He focused on the stretcher, barely sparing me a glance, as if acknowledging me would break him. But I saw the tremors in his hands, the slight tremble in his voice as he barked orders at the hospital staff. He was cracking.His muscles taut, as if holding the world at bay.I wanted to scream, to tell him it would be okay, but the words died on my lips. I couldn’t lie. We were rushing toward something, and we didn’t know

The house was eerily quiet. The walls that once echoed with laughter and whispered promises now felt like a mausoleum of all that had crumbled. The past weeks blurred into courtroom drama and hospital visits. Dontrell lay in a hospital bed, battered and broken. My father was also locked away for sins that had ensnared us all.Now I stood in our room – his room, but he wasn’t here; the kisses and sex we shared in this penthouse were now memories. The staff packed up the remnants of a carefully built life that crumbled in an instant. The drag of my luggage on the floor sounded like freedom.His staff stayed—I admired their loyalty, though it was to the wrong man.“I’ll be seeing you, Ms Blackwell,” the cook said, nodding as he pulled my frame off the wall and walked out. His words felt hollow. Was it pity—or just obligation?I took one last look at the room, knowing it was never truly mine.This was a place where I had been loved and cherished—then manipulated, beaten, and lied to.

Three months ago, my name blazed across headlines like blood on silk.“Allison Blade Finalises Divorce from Mafia Kingpin Dontrell Blade.”“Mafia Wife Walks Away: Allison Blade Now Legally Single.”“From Blackmail to Freedom—Inside the Fall of a Criminal Empire’s Queen.”“Single and Free: Allison Blade Cuts Ties with Comatose Crime Lord”I didn’t need to read the articles — didn’t need to. I’d lived it.The court declared Dontrell unfit for trial—permanently incapacitated, doctors said—vegetative. Alive, but unreachable. A man who once ruled with an iron grip now lay breathless under a sterile hospital light, surrounded by machines that did his living for him.Filing for divorce should’ve felt like a betrayal. Instead, it felt sweet.The day I filed, I didn’t cry. I walked into the courthouse, signed the petition, and told the clerk I was ready to leave hell behind. Two weeks later, a judge reviewed my case. They assigned Dontrell a guardian ad litem—some lawyer who never looked me