Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 61 - Chapitre 70

GIOVANNI'S POVThe rumble of the armored convoy was the only symphony I ever truly trusted. It was a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the very core of my being, a constant reminder of the power I commanded, the lengths I went to maintain it. Tonight, that symphony was playing its most crucial note. Beside me, Dmitri, ever vigilant, scanned the dark, winding roads, his posture rigid, a silent sentinel. We were on our way to the meeting place, a rendezvous with the overseas client, a man known only as 'The Engineer,' and the stakes had never been higher.Months. Months of meticulous planning, of delicate negotiations, of weaving a web of deceit and promises across continents. This wasn’t just another deal. This was a coup, a turning point. We were acquiring something invaluable, something that would solidify the Sokolov family’s dominion over the city’s underworld and beyond. An exclusive formula for an explosive, potent enough to rewrite the rules of engagement in my chaotic

GIOVANNI'S POVThe jarring jolt of the Cadillac hitting the gravel drive was my cue. I let out a groan, a little too loud, a little too theatrical, clutching my side as if the bullet had just found my heart instead of a good six inches from it. My vision blurred, not from pain, but from the effort of feigning near-unconsciousness. I’d taken worse hits than this; one grazed rib and a flesh wound in the shoulder were hardly vital. But Tristan was here, and I had an audience."Giovanni!" I heard Tristan's voice, laced with genuine panic. Good. That was the reaction I craved. Dmitri, ever the loyal but somewhat clumsy brute, fumbled with the door as Tristan already had his arm under my shoulder, easing me out.Tristan barked at Dmitri, his voice tight with alarm. Dmitri, looking like a giant worried puppy, tried his best to be gentle as they half-carried, half-dragged me into the mansion. My eyes were slits, barely open, but enough to catch Tristan’s frantic gaze d

TRISTAN'S POV The steel-cold air of the corridor bit at my exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the inferno Giovanni ignited with his proximity. I found myself pinned, not by force alone, but by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. His body was a wall, solid and unyielding, pressing me back against the cool, unforgiving concrete. One arm, thick with muscle, was braced beside my head, a silent declaration of ownership over the space. The other rested just above my hip, not quite touching, yet its implied weight was a crushing pressure, an iron grip that tightened around my lungs.His eyes, dark and predatory, bored into mine, demanding my full, undivided attention. My breath hitched. That intimidating effect he had on me, it was still there, a visceral, unwelcome jolt every time. I tried to look away, to find something, anything, to anchor myself to besides the swirling vortex of his anger, but his gaze was a tractor beam, pulling me deeper.“Do you enjoy it, Tristan?” G

TRISTAN'S POVI still feel Giovanni’s iron-hard cock buried deep inside me, his cum flooding my hole in relentless waves. Even after he’d emptied himself into me, his dick showed no signs of softening. My body, trembling from the intensity of our climax, collapses onto the bed, sweat-slicked and breathless. I’m about to push myself up, intending to clean the mess between my legs, when Giovanni’s hand shoots out, gripping my hip with a strength that belies his injury. His voice, low and husky, whispers against my ear, “We’re not done yet.”I freeze, my chest heaving as I turn my head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes, dark with desire, lock onto mine, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. “Giovanni,” I start, my voice hoarse, “you need rest. Your wound—”“Will heal faster if I keep fucking you,” he cuts me off, his tone brooking no argument. Before I can respond, his lips crash against mine in a kiss that’s hungry, possessive. His tongue thrusts into my mout

TRISTAN'S POVThe sterile scent of antiseptic and aged paper was my constant companion these days. My world, once a bustling theatre of life and death decisions, had shrunk to the confines of Giovanni’s expansive estate, my surgical scrubs replaced by civilian clothes – albeit expensive ones, courtesy of my captor. Trauma surgery, my specialization, felt like a distant dream, a ghost of a life I’d passionately built. But even in this gilded cage, I refused to let my mind stagnate. I refused to let my skills atrophy. My room, which had once been a guest suite, was now cluttered with medical journals and textbooks, their pages dog-eared from relentless study. My hands, once accustomed to the precise cut of a scalpel, now traced diagrams of the human anatomy, a phantom pressure against my fingertips.My fingers traced the intricate diagrams in a neurosurgical journal, the latest developments in craniotomy techniques captivating me, pulling me back to the world I yearned for. Giovanni mig