All Chapters of The Mafia's Little Raven: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

LEILA ..“Hi, Kai,” I said, the words a breathless whisper and my legs felt weak. I sank onto the sofa, tea forgotten.“Leila,” he said, a smile in his voice.“You sound surprised.”“I am,” I admitted, a shaky laugh escaping me.“How did you?”“You left a clue,” he said, his voice warm, amused.“A very helpful clue.”My number, the piece of paper on the pillow, he’d seen it and called.We talked for a long time that night.Hours.About everything going on in our lives and Bangkok was an escape route for me, and then about New York, about the market, about the room, about the sheer, wild spontaneity of that night.His voice, easy, charming, with that intriguing accent, filled my apartment, and I found myself smiling, laughing, genuinely laughing, the sound bubbling up from a place I hadn’t known was still accessible.I rolled onto my stomach on the sofa, playing with the edge of a cushion, then onto my back, my legs in the air, kicking gently, laughing at something he said.It felt

LEILA .. The skepticism was real, a genuine doubt that this could work, that I could work in this context, but looking at him, at his earnest expression, I just feel like he deserves better, feeling his hand holding mine, the strong pull towards him, the warmth he radiated. I liked him. God, I liked him so much. He was kind, uncomplicated, he paid attention, he saw me, he made me laugh, he made me feel good.I took a breath, letting the skepticism recede, just for a moment. “Yes, Kai,” I said, the word clear and firm. “Yes, I will.”He smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up his face, squeezing my hand, relief and pure happiness in his eyes.“And he gave you twenty-eight gifts?!” Sophia shrieked down the phone line later that night, after I’d gotten home, still buzzing from the dinner, from the question, from my answer. “A first edition book and a private jet experience? Girl, what is this man?!”I laughed, rolling onto my stomach on my bed, kicking my feet in the air.

LEILA ..I spent hours online, ostensibly researching trends, fabric suppliers, potential inspirations for the next collection, but my cursor often drifted to the online fashion magazines, the society pages, the digital spaces where the other half lived, where other narratives unfolded.Browse through a gallery of photos from a high-profile charity event, a glittering affair held in some impossibly chic venue and I saw them.A picture.High-quality, professional, Damien and Elena.They were standing together, a united front that radiated power, he was in a sharp tuxedo, black against the muted backdrop, looking every inch the formidable figure I knew him to be.She was in a stunning gown, a column of shimmering fabric, draped in jewels that caught the light.They looked powerful, like they owned the room, or rather owned the world.His arm around her waist, possessive, his hand spread flat against the small of her back, her hand on his chest, a silent claim, her fingers resting lig

LEILA ..The sex was different.More intense than the usual comfort, charged with a different kind of energy. It was deep. So goddamn deep.He entered me, slowly at first, his body heavy against mine, then picking up a rhythm, going in and out of me, filling me completely.His body moving against mine, strong, powerful, matching my desperate need. My body responded instantly, arching into his touch, meeting his thrusts, clinging to him and my moans began, not just soft moans, but loud, raw sounds pulled from deep in my gut, sounds of pure pleasure, of hunger for him, for this connection, this intensity I craved and then I gave into the soft part, soft moans, sighs of satisfaction, murmurs of delight, sounds of surrender and pleasure mingling in the dim light. It was perfect.Something out of the blue, a wild, unexpected storm of sensation, a perfect, brutal counterpoint to the quiet normalcy.He reached up, his hand finding my throat, his fingers wrapping gently but firmly around

DAMIEN..Years.Everything I seemed to do with Elena seemed to go wrong, even if it looked right from the outside. The perfect couple, the public narrative, it was all a lie. A façade.The problems within were insurmountable.I walked out of the art room, the city lights spread out below me a cold, distant constellation.The penthouse felt vast, empty, the silence rushing in, just like before, like after Leila. The familiar ache in my chest, the one I thought Elena had numbed, sharpened again, doubling the pain of losing her with the persistent, underlying agony of losing Leila all those years ago.I went to the bar, poured a glass of sharp whiskey that burned.Drank it down in one gulp, the liquid fire a temporary distraction from the cold emptiness inside.Poured another, paced the penthouse, the glass cold in my hand, the rage simmering beneath the surface. Why did she leave?Not just the painting, there definitely was something else, because the tension and then the distance.