Lahat ng Kabanata ng Dark Possession: Bound To The Mafia Don: Kabanata 431 - Kabanata 440

Michael’s POV I hadn’t realized how much the sterile smell of hospitals had burrowed into me until the seventh day. Every step down that corridor reminded me that Ashley was still here, tucked away behind white curtains and pale blue sheets. But today felt different. I could feel it in my chest as I pushed the door open with my shoulder, balancing a heavy basket of fruit against my side. She was sitting upright, her hair brushed back, color returning to her face, eyes brighter than I had seen them in weeks. The sight nearly knocked the breath out of me. “Look who’s trying to pretend she’s not still the sickest patient on this floor,” I teased lightly, setting the basket down on the table near her bed. Ashley arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching. “And look who thinks fruit can heal bullet wounds.” “Oranges heal everything, didn’t you know?” I grabbed one, rolling it in my palm before perching myself on the edge of the chair beside her bed. She tilted her he

Michael’s POV The silence between us stretched, thick as fog, hanging heavy in the hospital’s parking lot. The move I made to block Dominique surprised even me. I could feel the tremor in my thigh from the strain of holding it firm, but I didn’t shift, not an inch. His gaze dropped to my leg and then slowly traveled up, steady, deliberate, until his eyes locked with mine. “Michael,” Dominique said, his voice smooth, unshaken, carrying that eerie patience that always rubbed me the wrong way. “What exactly are you doing?” I swallowed hard, but I didn’t look away. “You’re not driving me back. Not yet.” He arched one brow, not annoyed, not frustrated, just curious like I was some puzzle he was eager to solve. “And why is that?” “Because, like i said earlier ” I said slowly, “I don’t trust you.” The words hung in the cool night air. Dominique leaned casually against the car, folding his arms across his chest. His white shirt caught the faint glow of the parking lot lights. “

Fernando’s POV The room where I held most of my meetings smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polished mahogany, the kind of heavy air that clung to the walls long after the men had left. I sat in my chair that had broken men with nothing more than silence, while the walls were filled with roch and unnecessary pieces of art my father had chosen himself. My fingers drummed slowly against the carved armrest, each tap echoing the pulse of the anger that burned hot inside my veins. Behind me, like the constant shadow that he is, Marlo stood with his arms folded across his chest. He had been pacing earlier, a caged wolf, but now he loomed still, his voice sharp as steel when it cut the silence. “I told you,” he said for the fourth time, maybe the fifth, his words crawling under my skin like thorns. “I told you from the very beginning, Don Fernando, Dominique was never to be trusted. I could smell it on him from the moment he stepped into the mansion. He was too polished, too quick to

Michael’s POV The tea cup rattled faintly against its saucer as I set it back down on the table. The morning sun was warm but not too much, the kind of late-summer light that softened everything it touched. I should have felt at peace here but my stomach churned, my fingers tightened, and the tea left a bitter aftertaste on my tongue. Because I could not shake the image of last night when Dominique had tried to kiss me and confessed his feelings. And then, like a fool, perhaps out of guilt or some broken sense of loyalty, I had told Fernando everything. Now I sat in the garden, staring into my tea, wondering if by opening my mouth I had signed Dominique’s death warrant. The sound of footsteps sounding over gravel pulled me out of the spiral in my mind. I looked up to see Emilio approaching. He carried a small stack of envelopes tied neatly with a rubber band. “Morning, Michael,” he said, his voice calm as always. “I stopped by Ashley’s apartment as you asked. These were in h

Michael’s POV I would have preferred to be anywhere else, even a jail cell, with nothing but silence for company, would have been easier to stomach. But instead, here I was, sitting in a plush armchair, a teacup in my hand, while across from me a woman in a green suit flipped through a binder fat enough to crush someone’s skull. She was the wedding planner. Her name was Chloe Valdez, and she had the energy of a woman who had long since stopped caring about sleep and lived instead on coffee, adrenaline, and the intoxicating prospect of making other people’s lives sparkle. She was young but carried herself well and her eyes practically glittered every time she turned a page. She adored this, every ribbon, every flower petal, every seating arrangement was life or death to her and I was supposed to care too. I didn’t, but I couldn’t afford not to sit here because every minute I endured this meant I was one step closer to what really mattered: getting Fernando to marry me, adopting