All Chapters of Way Out: Owned by the Mafia Boss: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Dante’s POVThe hard drive whirred like a distant whisper, a low, insistent voice bleeding secrets into the room. I sat alone at the end of the long table in my private study, lights dimmed, shadows pressing in from all corners. A tumbler of untouched whiskey sat at my elbow. The screen before me flickered to life, and with it, ghosts began to rise.The first file was dated nine years ago. Surveillance footage. Audio logs. Transcripts. Names I hadn’t heard in years. Faces I thought buried.Matteo Santoro’s digital resurrection wasn’t just a return—it was a reckoning.He had cataloged everything. Meetings I’d forgotten. Kill orders I never expected anyone to trace. Even some of the Ember Pact betrayals that had been handled in absolute silence. And then, buried deep beneath layers of encrypted data, was the real dagger:A video recording from the penthouse.The timestamp put it just days before Mira’s brother—Marco—was found dead.The footage was grainy but unmistakable. Marco, chained

Dante Moretti – Penthouse, MidnightThe city glimmered below like a wounded thing pretending not to bleed.Dante stood at the glass wall of the penthouse, back to the room, eyes fixed on the lights blinking far beneath him. Each one felt like a pin on a map, a variable to account for, a potential threat. He didn’t blink. Not when the building creaked. Not when his burner phone buzzed once on the table behind him. The static hum of the city had become background noise to a mind sharpened into something colder than steel.He had not spoken to Luca since that night.He didn’t need to. The image was seared into him—Mira’s hands buried in Luca’s hair, the way her back arched, her voice raw and unrestrained. They hadn’t seen him. But he had seen enough.That wasn’t betrayal. That was obliteration.And now, the game moved forward. Not out of revenge. Not even out of rage anymore. He was past that. This was surgical now. Strategic. Thread by thread, he would pull until everything around them

Dante’s POV Do you know what separates a hunter from the hunted?Patience.That’s it. Not strength, not intelligence, not even power—those are tools, extensions. But patience? Patience is the weapon that carves the line between predator and prey. And I have it in abundance. Luca, on the other hand, does not.That is why he slipped.It was quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that makes lesser men feel safe. The city stretched beneath my windows like a living beast—glittering arteries of light, the restless hum of engines, a constant pulse of desperation. I was in my study, wine in hand, watching the screen glow against the glass desk. Reports, encrypted chatter, fragments from my men.And then I saw it.A tremor. A movement where there should have been stillness. Luca’s curiosity, messy and unrefined, crashing into one of the mirrors I left buried months ago. A digital tripwire, a little thread tied to the past. He stumbled right into it.My lips curved before I realized it. That smile.

Patience is the blade that never dulls.Men like Luca never understand this. They confuse hunger for strategy, impulse for instinct. They rush, because rushing makes them feel alive, makes them feel like they’re doing something against the inevitable tide. But inevitability doesn’t care about speed.Inevitable is inevitable.That is why he slipped.I was in my study when it happened. The city glowed outside the windows, its heartbeat steady, its arteries lit in red and gold. My desk was bare but for a single laptop, its screen whispering in pale blue light. Encrypted channels, system logs, the language of ghosts.And there it was—Luca’s curiosity colliding with my design. A tremor, a ripple on still water. He had stumbled into one of the tripwires I planted months ago, chasing Matteo Santoro’s shadow like a starving dog after scraps.I should have been angry at his audacity. Instead, I smiled. Not the kind of smile people wear in photographs or business dinners. No—this was the smile

Luca’s POVI never wanted to see him like this.Not Dante. Not Moretti.Not the man who haunted my every waking thought like a shadow too heavy to shake. I had imagined him in many ways — untouchable, cruel, untamed. I had even imagined him broken, on his knees, bloodied beneath my hands in some future where I finally took back the power he stole.But I had never imagined him like this.Collapsed on a rain-slick street. Pale. Bleeding. His breath rattling like a man already halfway into the grave.The first thought that hit me wasn’t pity. It was triumph.This is it. He’s finished.The city had done to him what I could not. Matteo’s ghosts, or fate itself, had carved him open and left him for dead. All I had to do was walk away. Leave him in the gutter where he belonged. And for the first time in years, I’d be free.No more sleepless nights. No more obsession. No more Dante Moretti.I could already picture it — his empire crumbling without him, his enemies closing in, Mira finally bre