Semua Bab THE MAFIA DON'S PRETTY BOY: Bab 61 - Bab 70

"He’s still bleeding, goddammit!" Francesca's voice cracked like a whip through the chaos.She dropped to her knees beside Noel’s limp body, her hands slick with blood. “Manuel!” she screamed, her throat raw. “You’re a doctor, do something! Apply pressure, anything…just help him!”But Manuel didn’t move right away.Because Vincenzo was still cradling Noel’s body, gripping him so tightly it was like he thought letting go would let death win. His face was a mask of devastation..blood and sea water streaked down his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were wide, hollow, locked on Noel’s unmoving face.“Vincenzo,” Manuel said gently, kneeling. “I need to help him. If you don’t let me..”“No.” Vincenzo’s voice was hoarse, breaking. “He’s still warm. He’s still..he’s still breathing.”“If you don’t let go now, we’ll lose him,” Manuel snapped, firmer this time. “I need to put pressure on the wound before he bleeds out.”Vincenzo’s arms trembled. His grip didn’t loosen.But then No

"You're running out of road, Carlton."The voice on the other end of the phone was as cold as ice and twice as deadly. Carlton’s hand trembled slightly as he pulled the phone away from his ear, disbelief flashing through his eyes. He was in his bedroom, his chest heaving with panic. Sweat slicked his brow, not from the heat…but from fear.Not fear of Noel’s blood still fresh on his conscience. No, that hadn’t mattered much to him.This was different.He’d just been told that the syndicate…those men with no names, only blood debts and silent kills…were coming for him.And they weren’t coming to talk.“No, no, no…” he murmured to himself, his voice breaking with panic as he yanked open the hidden panel in the wall behind his closet.Inside sat his emergency stash. Black duffel bags filled with cash, foreign passports, burner phones, and one pistol with a single clip of ammo. He hadn’t thought he’d ever need to use it. He always played smarter than the rest. He wasn’t reckless. He didn’t

"Take it all out on me. Every ounce of fear, every tear you've held back. I can take it, Aria. I want to."The words tumbled from Francesca's lips, husky and low, as she pulled Aria inside her dimly lit apartment, slamming the door shut behind them. The city lights filtered through gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across their skin. But inside, it was a different storm…raw, electric, and urgent.Aria didn’t respond with words. She crashed her lips into Francesca’s, her kiss fierce and frantic, tasting of panic and pain and desperate, wild need. She clawed at Francesca’s blazer, tugging it off her shoulders, then threw it to the floor. Francesca groaned into her mouth and cupped her face, holding her steady as their tongues tangled like they were fighting for dominance and surrender all at once.Clothes became casualties. Aria’s top tore down the middle, buttons flying. Francesca’s silk blouse was ripped over her head. Their bodies pressed together, hot skin to skin, fevered and

The soft hiss of the IV line was the only sound in the hospital room, faint and steady, like a serpent in the shadows. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, casting long slashes across the sterile floor. The male nurse stood by the bedside, eyes darting to the door, then to the syringe in his gloved hand. His breath was shallow, sweat glistening at his temple.The clear liquid inside the syringe caught the light…a poison meant to never be traced.He adjusted the drip tube carefully, steadying his hand. The pulse monitor beeped in a sleepy rhythm, the only sign of life from the still figure on the bed. Noel looked like a porcelain doll in sleep. Fragile. Beautiful. Vulnerable.The needle inched toward the IV line.Then…Noel's eyes fluttered open.Hazel blue like met the nurse’s dark ones. Wide, dazed, blinking. A breath rattled weakly from Noel's chest.The nurse froze.Noel couldn't move. Couldn't speak. But his eyes screamed.The syringe trembled in the man's hand. He gr

"You should not sit up, mon ange. You'll tear the stitches." The voice was soft, melodic, and disturbingly serene. Noel's eyes flickered open, pupils adjusting slowly to the warm, diffused sunlight spilling through white gossamer curtains. He blinked once, twice, then let his gaze sweep the enormous room. Everything gleamed…white marble floors, gold-accented furniture, ivory silk drapes. Gilded mirrors hung between massive French paintings, their strokes bold and romantic. The bed beneath him was impossibly large, dressed in snow-colored sheets, pillows stacked behind his back like clouds. And beside the bed, perched gracefully in a white velvet armchair, was a man who did not seem real. He was lean, pale…almost ghostlike…with light-blonde hair that shimmered like spun platinum in the sunlight. He wore a white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. In his lap was a sketchbook. His slender fingers moved effortlessly with a pencil across the paper, capturing something unknown with obses