Lahat ng Kabanata ng Dark Possession: Bound To The Mafia Don: Kabanata 381 - Kabanata 390

Archer’s POV My hand was tight around Michael’s collar, the barrel of my gun pressing dangerously against his temple. His heartbeat pulsed under my palm like a drum that wanted to break through his ribs. Around us, Fernando’s men were crouched behind cars and walls, their guns drawn, every muscle tight. They thought I was a madman. Maybe I was. But I wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not when everything I wanted was within reach. “Archer, listen to me,” Michael’s voice was strained, his throat dry from the way I gripped him, but he still tried. “This isn’t the way. You think this stunt—holding me like this—is going to change Fernando’s mind? You think putting a gun to my head will make him look at you with love instead of fury?” I laughed, though it was bitter and ugly. “You’re only saying that because it’s you in my grip, Michael. If our places were switched, if you were the one begging every day for his attention and getting nothing but scraps, maybe you would understand why I’m he

Michael’s POV The sound still rang in my ears. A loud, merciless bang that had cut through the air like a blade. Ashley. My heart beat against my ribcage. Every muscle in my body screamed to move, to run, to tear through the air until I reached her room upstairs—but I couldn’t. Not with Archer’s gun pressed against my temple. The cold steel burned hotter than fire, pinning me to the sidewalk outside Ashley’s apartment building. “No,” Archer hissed. His voice was jagged. His hand trembled, but not enough to loosen the trigger. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.” I twisted my neck just enough to catch his expression. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes darting back toward the building with something raw flashing across them. “What did you do?” My voice was ragged. “What the hell did you tell them to do?” “I told them not to shoot until I gave the order!” Archer barked, his voice cracking like thunder in the still night. “I told them to hold back. I—” He cut himself off, his teeth

Michael’s POV The air smelled like copper and smoke. I stood outside Ashley’s compound staring at police cars and ambulances. The driveway, once pristine and white-stoned, now looked like a war zone—blood spattered across the tiles, bullet casings glinting under the harsh beams of sunlights, glass shards crunching beneath the boots of paramedics. Ashley sat a few feet from me, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders though she refused to let the paramedic patch her properly. I could tell she hated being fussed over, hated being treated like a victim, but right now even her stubbornness couldn’t mask the tremor in her hands. I had a scratch on my arm, another across my cheek. Small, insignificant things compared to the storm that had almost swallowed us. But every time I touched the cut, it stung—not because of the wound itself, but because it reminded me of who caused all this. Archer Graves. The police officer standing in front of us kept repeating his questions, his voice a

Michael’s POV I was tired. Not just the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the sort that settled into the body, weighing down the bones and making every step like agony. My eyes burned, my shoulders ached, and I wanted nothing more than a bed and silence. But there was no silence waiting for me here. Ashley walked beside me, her arms folded across her chest. She hadn’t said much since we had left her apartment. The way she kept her gaze lowered, jaw tight, and lips pressed in a line told me everything. She was angry—still, furious—and Fernando was the easy target for it all. Because in a way, she was right. Fernando had dragged me into his world, into this reckless triangle he had built with Archer. And Ashley, caught in the crossfire, had paid a price she didn’t deserve. The mansion’s iron gates swung open, tall and imposing. A line of guards stood rigid, their uniforms neat, their rifles slung against their chests. Their gazes followed us as we entered the wid

Ashley’s POV I hated the silence after Fernando left the room. It wasn’t the comforting kind of silence you craved after a long day—it was the kind that lingered, heavy and suffocating, like the walls were listening, like the shadows leaned in closer. For hours, since this whole charade of “shopping” began, I had been careful. Careful with every look, every breath, every twitch of my hands. Because Fernando was always there. Watching. Controlling. His presence was a net I could not slip through. And then a few minutes ago, he had leaned down close enough that I could smell the cold edge of his cologne, and whispered his reminder, his warning, that he hadn’t forgiven me for slapping him yesterday. I had acted like it meant nothing. I had straightened my spine, lifted my chin, forced my voice not to shake. But inside I was trembling. If Michael hadn’t stepped out of the fitting room in that very second, I wasn’t sure what I would’ve done. Now Fernando was gone, leaving only the