Dark Possession: Bound To The Mafia Don のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 401 - チャプター 410

Fernando’s POV The barrel of the gun was still warm in my hand when I heard the voice that could undo me. “Fernando?” I froze. Michael’s voice. It threaded through me like a wire pulled too tight, cutting through muscle, through bone, through everything I thought I had under control. Slowly, I turned toward the doorway of the shed. My chest locked around the half-breath I hadn’t managed to release. There he was, Michael, framed by the soft rays of the sun. His silhouette cut sharp against the light, his stance tense, his expression unreadable. His eyes darted past me, past Marlo, and landed on the beaten man kneeling in the dirt. The assassin’s swollen face turned toward him, eyes bloodshot, one already swelling shut. Blood dripped in lazy drops from his nose. His mouth, raw and split, tried to form words but managed only a pitiful groan. My men shifted uneasily. The air in the shed thickened until it was suffocating, snapping taut like a rope about to split. And for the

Fernando’s POV The sight chilled me. Michael, my Michael, stood with a gun in his hand, arm steady, jaw locked, eyes blazing with a fury I hadn’t thought him capable of. He was transformed, consumed by something raw and dangerous, and every instinct in me screamed to act fast before he did something he could never undo. The man in the chair, battered and broken, raised his swollen head. His lips parted as if he would speak. And then I moved. I stepped in front of Michael, between his trembling rage and the half-dead wretch slumped against the ropes. My hands came up slowly, palms open, as though I were talking down a wild animal ready to tear through its cage. “Michael,” I said softly, steadying my voice, though inside I was a hurricane. “Look at me, not him, me.” His eyes flickered to mine, bright with unshed tears, red with sleeplessness and fury. His finger hovered too close to the trigger. “You’re not this man,” I whispered. “You’re not me.” He flinched at that, just a

Fernando’s POV The room was quiet, too quiet. That kind of silence that hangs heavy, wrapping around you like smoke, clinging until your lungs ache. Michael moved about in it like a ghost, shoulders tense, hands restless. He hadn’t spoken since we walked in. Not a word, not a sigh, nothing but the soft brush of fabric when he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped onto his body those casual shorts that did little to calm the storm in the room. I watched him in secret, or maybe I wanted him to see me watching. My gaze followed every small twitch of muscle under his skin, every line of tension across his back, every shadow his jaw cast beneath the dim bedside lamp. My chest was bare now, cooled by the whisper of night air that slipped through the curtains. I had removed my clothes deliberately, letting the fabric fall from me. All that clung to me now were my pyjama trousers, loose around my hips, as if I were offering him the freedom to look, though he wouldn’t. Not ye

Fernando’s POV I stood at the center of the warehouse, hands clasped behind my back, watching my men unload crates from the container truck. The heavy thud of boots echoed on the concrete floor, mingled with the metallic clatter of crowbars prying open lids. The men worked in pairs, their movements quick, disciplined, as if they knew my eyes were sharper than any blade. Inside those crates was our latest shipment of undiluted meth, the veins of this empire. My lips curved before I could stop them, and for a moment, I felt almost foolish. What kind of man smiled like this, during work? What kind of boss let his expression slip when men and loyalty were important? But I couldn’t help it. The memory of Michael tangled in my sheets last night, his body pressed beneath mine, his lips desperate and sweet against my skin, burned in me like the richest liquor. For sometime, he had been unstable and volatile, his grief over Ashley driving him close to madness. I had endured his

Fernando’s POV The gates of my estate opened with a slow, aching groan. Their sound echoed through the night, hollow and final. I sat in the back seat, still and rigid, Marlo beside me. Neither of us had spoken much during the ride from the warehouse. Silence hung between us, not the easy kind that comes from trust, but the suffocating kind that claws at the skin, restless and heavy. Even the men seated in the front did not dare break it. But silence is never truly empty. It presses on the mind, fills the air with weight. Tonight, it was filled with one thing, the absence of Michael and Emilio. "They should have been back hours ago." The thought repeated in my head, a rhythm too steady to ignore. When the car finally rolled to a stop in front of the mansion, I let my gaze linger on the sprawling structure. It looked alive, inviting, almost comforting. But I knew better than to trust appearances. Behind the glow lay shadows that never returned once they swallowed something wh