บททั้งหมดของ The Mafia King's Trophy: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

AmaraThe water scalds my skin, but I don’t move. I lay there on the cold tiles of the shower floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around myself as if I can hold myself together. The steady spray of water drowns out the sound of my muffled sobs, but it doesn’t stop the memories from clawing their way back in, vivid and relentless.What he did to me…My cheeks burn as I think of Matteo, of his hands on my body, of how I broke under him in the worst possible way. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as I remember the way he smirked, the satisfaction in his eyes as he reduced me to nothing but a trembling mess.I should hate him. I do hate him.But the worst part? The part I can’t stop replaying, can’t stop hating myself for?It didn’t feel wrong.A shudder runs through me, my tears mixing with the water as I press my forehead against the cool tiles. I don’t know what’s worse—that he did it, or that my body betrayed me so completely. I shouldn’t have pushed him so far. I shouldn’t h

MatteoThe door slams behind me as I leave Amara’s room, locking her in with a sharp twist of the key. My jaw is tight, and my pulse thrums with irritation. She’s a problem, but right now, she’s not the biggest one.My mother’s words still echo in my head as I make my way to the study. One of ours—gone. Entirely wiped out. I knew the Cerullis were desperate, but this? This was a declaration of war, plain and simple.The door to my father’s study is slightly ajar when I reach it, and I hear his heavy footsteps pacing inside. He rarely paces, which means one thing—this is bad. Very fucking bad.“What do we know?” I ask, my voice cutting through the silence.My father turns sharply, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. “The DeLucas,” he says, his voice low and simmering with rage. “Every last one of them. Men, women, even the fucking kids. Gone.”My stomach tightens, and I clench my fists at my sides. The DeLucas weren’t just allies—they were family. And now, they’re a goddamn massacre.

AmaraThe room is dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the window, casting long shadows against the walls. I wake with a start, a strange weight pressing on my chest, my senses prickling with unease.I sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes, and freeze.Matteo is standing by the window, his broad frame silhouetted against the pale light. His dark hair is disheveled, his shoulders tense—and his white shirt is covered in blood.My breath catches in my throat, and I grip the edge of the blanket like it might anchor me to reality. “Matteo?” I whisper, my voice trembling.He turns slowly, his green eyes locking onto mine, sharp and unrelenting.“What… what are you doing here?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze heavy, unreadable. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, before he finally speaks.“Go back to sleep, Amara,” he says, his tone flat, almost hollow.I don’t move. “Why are you covered in blood?”He exhal

AmaraThe flowers sit in a crystal vase on the small table by the window, their colors vibrant against the gray light filtering in from outside. Blues, yellows, whites—soft, delicate things that feel out of place in this room, in this house, in my life.I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring at them, my arms resting on my knees. My fingers tap absently against my leg as my thoughts churn.Why did he do that?Why did Matteo make me pick them, of all things?It wasn’t a kindness—I know better than to think he’s capable of something like that. He doesn’t do things without a reason. Every move he makes is calculated, deliberate. So what was the point?I behaved, didn’t I?I gave him exactly what he wanted. I didn’t fight him, didn’t push back, didn’t light the match I know he’s expecting me to strike. I was quiet, obedient, everything he’s been trying to beat into me since he dragged me into this nightmare.And still… he seemed pissed.My gaze shifts to the flowers again, their delicate p

MatteoThe hallway blurs as I storm toward the parlor, anger pounding through my veins like a war drum. My fists clench and unclench at my sides, and I can still feel the heat of Amara’s tears, the sound of her voice trembling.She wasn’t the one I wanted to break today.It’s my mother.I shove the doors open with more force than necessary, the echo reverberating through the room. She’s sitting at the same table where she had tea with Amara just moments ago, the faint scent of chamomile still lingering in the air.Sienna Dragonetti doesn’t even flinch. She looks up at me, her face calm, poised, the picture of composure, but I can see the steel in her eyes.“You shouldn’t have done it,” I snap, my voice harsh and cold.She tilts her head slightly, resting her hands on the armrests of her chair. “Done what, Matteo?”“Invited her to tea,” I growl, stepping closer. “What the fuck were you thinking?”Her expression doesn’t waver, but her tone sharpens ever so slightly. “I was thinking it m