All Chapters of The Mafia's Plaything: His To Ruin: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The forest was quiet, the chirping of distant birds masked by the rush of the river. Brinda’s soaked frame emerged from the water, trembling from the cold and adrenaline. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she dragged herself a few paces from the riverbank, but something — no, someone her heart couldn't stop beating for — pulled her back. She turned with a plummeting heart. Francesco. He wasn’t moving. His body hadn’t surfaced beside her. Instead, he floated a distance behind, half-submerged, his limbs slack, and the current beginning to tug him deeper. Her soul screamed before her mouth could form a sound. “Francesco!” Without hesitation, Brinda dived back in. The cold water swallowed her whole, but the fire in her chest burned hotter than ever. Her arms cut through the water with urgency, her lungs tightening as she swam down toward him. He was sinking — his black shirt ballooned around him, stained darker with blood. Her fingers brushed his arm. She reached forward and grabb

Morning crept in too fast for the world, yet too slow for Elizabeth. Sleep hadn’t kissed her eyes all night; instead, rage coiled in her veins like a living beast, gnawing at her insides. The mere thought that Francesco and Brinda were still alive mocked her. It wasn’t just a lingering memory — it was a cinematic torment playing on repeat.She could still feel the trigger under her finger, still see their bodies disappear into the dark abyss below the cliff. But the image that haunted her most… was their cries. Not out of mercy. Not fear. But defiance.She had failed.Her breathing grew heavier as she clenched her fists. If only her men had returned with their corpses. Or better yet, with their broken bodies, alive — so she could peel the flesh from their bones herself and erase their existence in the slowest, most unforgiving way.Peace would only find her when she had tasted their blood. When their pain became the lullaby to her dreams. Only then would her greatest, most wicked

FrancescoA few minutes after Bullet left, the room grew quiet, save for the distant cawing of birds and the soft creak of wooden beams above my head. The air was thick with the smell of old timber and herbs — a scent that reminded me of forgotten places and quiet grief.And yes… Brinda. I narrowed my eyes towards her direction. She was still sleeping peacefully. Peacefully? How do I know that? But, I think so. I've been feeling the urge to touch her yet, I can't. Or, can I? I shut my eyes as I began to move my hands towards her…Then, the door creaked open gently.The old woman from earlier walked in, her hunched frame steady as she balanced a worn-out tray with both hands. Her wrinkled fingers trembled slightly under the weight, and her footsteps whispered against the dusty wooden floor. The scent of boiled greens hit me before the tray landed, and I instinctively sat up, hope stirring in my gut.My stomach grumbled as my eyes settled on the bowl she placed before me. But the brie

Francesco pushed the curtain aside as he followed the older woman, Valerie, out of the dimly lit room. The moment his feet stepped onto the porch and his eyes caught sight of the outside world, his breathing caught — sharp and reluctant. The sky was pale and heavy with sorrow, a shade of grey that threatened to split open with drizzle. Before them stretched a quiet expanse of land — a small field shaped by both harvest and heartbreak. The soil looked worn, bruised, like it remembered every footstep of grief that had passed over it. A few figures, mostly elderly, moved slowly across the field with hoes and baskets. Their backs were bent, spines curled like commas at the end of a tragic story. Their hands, cracked and calloused, worked with a rhythm that spoke not of hope, but of necessity. That's speaking of survival. Their bodies carried the memory of too many storms. Off to the far left stood tired houses. Weathered walls slouched under rusted tin roofs. Wooden beams groaned wit

Francesco bolted to Brinda’s bedside the moment her fingers stirred, those small movements cracking the silence like a thunderclap. He seized her right hand, clutching it tightly as if afraid it would fall still again. Gently, he began to rub her fingers, willing life back into her. His voice trembled as he called out for Valerie.She appeared in seconds, her eyes widening at the sight of Francesco crouched beside the bed like a broken man clinging to a thread of hope. A sheen of sweat shimmered on Brinda’s forehead — for the first time in over a week.Francesco’s knees buckled slightly, the gravity of the moment weighing down his body. His heartbeat echoed like war drums — loud and erratic. Tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision as he used his other hand to tenderly wipe the sweat from Brinda’s clammy face.Valerie’s instincts kicked in. Without a word, she spun around and darted out of the room, rushing toward the clinic.But when she arrived, the doctor was tending to anoth