Lahat ng Kabanata ng Bound by blood and lies: Kabanata 191 - Kabanata 200

Matteo's povIt was quiet. Too quiet.That kind of quiet that felt like the world was holding its breath right before a storm ripped through it.I crouched low behind the ridge, eyes scanning the compound below. Brick walls, three stories high, cameras that rotated every few seconds. Guards stationed on each corner like lifeless statues.But I could see the movement in their fingers. The twitch of a hand near a trigger. They were ready. But not ready enough.“She’s in there?” I asked, voice low, eyes locked on Ricardo who knelt beside me.He nodded once, face grim. “Not Evangeline herself. But one of her operatives. High-level. And a vault. Files, weapons—maybe even tech.”I nodded.Behind us, Eli and Luca waited in the shadows, their guns loaded, expressions unreadable.It had taken weeks of digging, months of bloodshed, and a lot of begging the right rats for this location. But now? Now it was time.“Ten guards outside, maybe fifteen more inside,” Ricardo whispered. “There’s an unde

Eli’s POVThere’s a strange sort of calm that comes right before war.The mansion was alive with movement—plans unfolding, men in black loading weapons, mapping routes, testing communications, and rehearsing fallback strategies. Ricardo’s voice barked orders in clipped tones, while Matteo paced in front of the glass windows like a lion about to break out of his cage. Luca stood beside me, eyes locked on the large map sprawled across the table, arms crossed as Luciano laid down the final phase of our operation.And me? I sat at the edge of it all. Watching. Waiting.I was the spark that would ignite this powder keg.Three days had gone by in a blur. Ricci’s men spread whispers like wildfire through underground channels—false intel that the Moretti heir was being moved from Prague to a remote safe house in Northern Italy. The story was believable: with the increased heat in the capital, we were taking me back to where it all began. Rossi territory.We’d even staged a “fight” between me

Eli’s POVThe first thing I noticed was the silence.No echo of footsteps. No beeping monitors. No clang of cell bars or sterile scent of antiseptic. Just… silence.And softness.My back pressed into a mattress that might have been made of clouds. There were velvet sheets around me, thick and warm. My wrists weren’t shackled. No blood crusted on my skin. Just clean pajamas I didn’t remember putting on, and the gentle hum of a chandelier swaying overhead.Where the hell was I?I forced my eyes to stay half-lidded, feigning unconsciousness, breathing slow and steady. My mind raced as I took in my surroundings through the slit of my lashes.Golden curtains fluttered at tall glass windows. Marble floors gleamed beneath the morning sun. A big wardrobe stood in one corner. And across the room, just beyond the open door, I caught a familiar scent—roses.Too familiar.Evangeline.My stomach turned.I waited for a guard. A heavy hand to restrain me. Maybe a bucket of cold water. Something to r

Eli’s POVThe morning light barely warmed the marble floors as I sat through another performance.Evangeline sat opposite me at the breakfast table, slicing into a poached pear like we were on some mother-son bonding retreat instead of prisoner and captor. Her robe shimmered, silver and black, her long hair pinned into a tight bun that exposed every sharp bone in her face.“You’ve always been so… quiet,” she said as she set her fork down. “Even as a baby. You’d just watch everything. Analyze. You were different from Silas. Always thinking.”I bit into the edge of a croissant, nodding like I cared.“Do you know what I used to call you?” she went on, voice soft, wistful. “My little king.”My stomach twisted.She smiled. “I saw it in your eyes. Even when you couldn’t speak yet. The future. The power. You were never meant for a simple life, Elias. Never.”I chewed slower, jaw tight. “Is that why you put a chip in my brain?”She didn’t flinch. “That was for your protection.”I blinked at h

Eli’s POVThe house smelled like lavender and cinnamon this time.Sunlight streamed through the tall stained-glass windows, casting gentle colors of red and gold across the polished marble floor. The day was quiet. Too quiet. And the silence felt artificial, like a staged performance—Evangeline’s attempt to paint captivity as luxury.I stood on the balcony overlooking the garden, a cup of chamomile tea cradled in my hands like I might believe it was given out of motherly love rather than manipulation.She’d brought me breakfast this morning herself.An actual tray—with croissants, fruit, warm eggs, a little note in swirling cursive that read “My son deserves the world.”I’d smiled.And then flushed it down the toilet when she left.She was trying hard today. Too hard.It was almost funny.The psychotic woman who’d ordered the massacre of her own Mafia bloodline, kidnapped her son, and used another like a weapon—was now offering motherly bonding moments like we were starring in a chees