Sweet Mafia Protector のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

Vincenzo's POV The mirror reflected my image with an almost mocking clarity. Black trousers, sleek and tailored, hugging my legs just the right amount. The black jacket? Impeccable. It wasn't just a jacket; it was a statement. A smooth, polished statement that screamed power, control, and ambition. Perfect for tonight, or so I thought. The event was close, and I could already hear the music of the Hell Pit party thumping in the distance, reverberating through the walls of the grand estate. Everyone would be there. Everyone important. And more importantly—Lyra would be there. I clenched my jaw as I pictured her, her delicate smile, the way her eyes seemed to light up when she was near Marcello. Damn him. It wasn’t just that I wanted to be the one in her sights, but the fact that Marcello had a way of making every woman he looked at feel like the only one in the room. The bastard was charming, sure, but I wasn’t about to let him charm Lyra into his bed. Not tonight. Tonight, I would

Vincenzo’s POVI stood there, feeling my jaw tighten, each muscle in my body screaming with tension. The moment Marcello spoke, I felt the room contract around me, the space thickening with the weight of his words.His voice—the inflection, the arrogance—pushed me to the edge. But I stayed composed, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me lose control. I walked past him, the calm before a storm, as the air crackled with unspoken words, with unspoken threats.As I moved toward my seat, the familiar, cold sensation of rage washed over me. I could feel the anger curling in my chest, like a live wire ready to burst, but I held it back. I had to. I knew that once I let it go, there would be no stopping it. It wasn’t just Marcello I wanted to crush in that moment—it was everyone who ever dared to think they could challenge me, undermine my authority.Then, as if the pressure wasn't enough, I heard Carlo's voice. My right-hand man. He was the one person I trusted to follow my orders dow

Lyra’s POVI tried not to laugh too loudly, biting my lip as Marcello’s godfather launched into some wise old-man speech about "honor" and "pack unity"—the usual werewolf drama, seasoned with a side of testosterone. Vincenzo stood off to the side, arms folded like a sulking teen, while Marcello glared daggers at him with a fury I hadn’t seen since someone tried to cut in front of him at that New York deli last summer.Men.I said it silently, internally, but the word carried a weight of exasperation—laced with something I couldn’t name. Dread, maybe?“No, tell me—you got a problem with Lyra being my mate?” Marcello growled, shoving Vincenzo square in the chest.Vincenzo didn’t budge, only scoffed and tilted his head with the lazy arrogance of someone who enjoyed this too much.That was… weird. Not the aggressive man-drama. I mean the shove. It lacked force, like Marcello hadn’t really meant it. Like he wanted a reaction, not a fight.And suddenly, I felt like the room was shrinking.“

Marcello's POVDamn it.That deranged woman finally got to her.Rebekah. That name alone made my jaw clench. I could see her fiery silhouette just beyond the corridor, her voice a venom-laced lullaby winding its way into Lyra’s unsuspecting ears. My blood boiled. Only the heavens knew what poison she was whispering. I couldn’t let her think she was special. Not Lyra. Not the slave I hadn’t yet broken.I turned on my heel, boots slamming against the marble floor of the estate. The guards flinched when they saw the thunder in my eyes. I brushed past them, my stride long, calculated—each step meant to erase every word Rebekah dared plant in Lyra’s naive head.As I approached the grand hall, my voice thundered across the walls like a coming storm.“LYRA!”Both of them turned.Lyra’s eyes went wide. Hope flickered in them, fleeting, foolish. She took a step back as I closed the distance.“Get out. NOW,” I barked.She froze, trembling, lips parting to protest.I didn’t give her the chance.

Meera’s POV“I’m not having this conversation again.” I crossed my arms and leaned back into the velvet couch like it was my throne. “You hate Gabriel. We get it. Move on.”Dad stood by the fireplace like some overgrown villain from a period drama, one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of scotch he hadn’t even sipped. He wasn’t drinking. He was brooding.“You’re throwing your future away for a boy with no legacy, no—no direction,” he snapped. “Do you know what the Sinclairs think about this?”“The Sinclairs can choke.” I said it calmly, too calmly, which I knew would needle him more than screaming.His eyes flared. “Meerah.”“Don’t Meerah me,” I shot back. “You act like I’m bringing home some street criminal. He’s smart, kind, and he doesn’t kiss your ass, which, let’s be honest, is the real issue here.”Dad laughed, the kind of cruel, clipped sound that made my stomach twist. “Kind? Is that what you think this boy is? Sweetheart, he’s a parasite. Clinging onto my daughter for a tas