All Chapters of Dark Possession: Bound To The Mafia Don: Chapter 451 - Chapter 460

Michael’s POV The city was damp with rain when I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders and crossed the street toward Ashley’s apartment building. I stopped in front of her door, raising my hand, hesitating for a second. The last conversation we had still played in my head, her eyes, fierce with determination, when she said she wouldn’t let Fernando continue unchecked. I admired that fire, but it also terrified me. I knocked. The door creaked open almost immediately, but it wasn’t Ashley standing there. It was a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in work overalls, a tool belt hanging loosely around his hips. He smelled faintly of engine oil and cologne. He carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t mind being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And for one instant, when he turned his head back into the apartment, I caught sight of Ashley behind him. She was smiling. Smiling in a way that wasn’t meant for me. “Thanks again,” the

Fernando’s POV The morning light poured through the tall dining hall windows, touching the edges of the large table where our breakfast was placed before us. The house was quiet except for the clinking of silverware and Henry’s soft chatter. It was a serene kind of chaos, the kind that made the silence between adults all the more noticeable. Michael sat across from me, his sleeves rolled up, a small smile playing on his lips as he spoke to Henry. His voice was softer than I remembered it being last night and I found myself watching the way his face changed when he smiled. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Henry, with his well brushed hair and a mouth half-covered in toast crumbs, was going on about the happenings in his elementary school. “Miss Angela says that if we score enough goals on Saturday, she’ll bring cupcakes for the whole team!” Michael chuckled, a sound that made my chest tighten. “Cupcakes, huh? That’s quite the motivation. So, are you going to score one f

Fernando’s POVThe air outside Ashley’s apartment building felt thick with waiting. The kind of stillness that appeared just before a storm. I sat in the back seat of my car, my fingers tapping against the leather, the faint rhythm echoing the restlessness in my chest.Dominique sat in the driver’s seat, silent for once, his jaw tight as he watched the apartment windows. He had been quiet for nearly ten minutes before he finally spoke.“Don Fernando,” he said softly, his voice carrying that careful tone he used when he was testing my mood. “We haven’t… been together in a while.”I looked up from my phone and blinked at him. His reflection met mine in the rear-view mirror, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, lips pressed with restrained frustration.I sighed. “Dominique, this isn’t the time.”“When is it ever the time anymore?” he muttered. “It’s always work, Michael, or your damn plans.”I felt the annoyance flicker through me, not because of what he said, but because he was right. Still,

Michael’s POVSaturday mornings in this house always felt different, lighter, somehow. The air didn’t hum with business calls or footsteps echoing through the marble halls; instead, it carried the simple chaos of Henry’s laughter.He was already in his soccer uniform, bouncing on his toes in the foyer as I adjusted his shin guards. The white and blue jersey was a size too big, the sleeves brushing his elbows, but he wore it proudly.“Michael, look!” he said, spinning around to show off the number seven on his back. “It’s just like the real players.”I smiled, unable to hide the warmth spreading through me. “You look like the captain of the whole team, Henry.”He puffed out his small chest. I ruffled his hair and stood, adjusting my own jacket as the sound of faint footsteps approaching reached my ears.“Michael,” Anabelle said coldly, holding Henry’s water bottle. “We should leave soon if we don’t want to be late.”I nodded, already sensing the sharpness under her politeness. “Emi

Fernando’s POV The sun had started to fall lower in the sky, bleeding gold across the field, but all I could see was failure. Henry’s team had been on the defensive since the whistle blew. They stumbled over passes, missed easy shots, and their coordination was falling apart like glass under pressure. The scoreline on the electronic board mocked them with 3–0, favoring the other team, and at the center of that crumbling mess stood Henry. He was trying, that much was obvious. Sweat clung to his hair and dripped down his temples. His small frame trembled each time he ran down the field, chasing the ball with a desperate sort of determination. But it wasn’t enough. The ball came toward him again, and I held my breath. He drew his leg back, the crowd hushed, and he kicked but missed. The ball soared too high, slicing through air, landing harmlessly behind the goalpost. The opposing team’s parents cheered. I could feel the sound like a punch to my chest. Michael, sitting besi