Semua Bab Don Julio: His Wicked Temptation : Bab 131 - Bab 138

DON JULIO I came home soaking in more than just rain. My coat was soaked. My sneakers carried muck into the hallway. But my chest—the stuff beating behind my ribs—felt the heaviest. Not because of what I did. But now I have something to say. I should have felt stronger, walking away from Abraham Moretti's table without a knife in my back. But all I felt was the gradual disintegration of something I'd spent years attempting to keep hidden. Not just in the dirt—in blood, fire, and quiet. I opened the door to the garden room. There she was. Sarian sat on the velvet couch, coiled up like a calm storm.She wore my black sweater again, with the sleeves swallowing her hands and her legs pulled up as if she was terrified of falling through the floor. The book on her lap was open. The page hadn't been turned in a while. She either didn't notice me or saw me but didn't say anything. I could not blame her. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "Can I sit?" She looke

SARIAN I woke up that morning with a strange feeling in my chest. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. Just a tightness. A pressure, like something unseen was sitting on me. I couldn’t name it. I couldn’t shake it. It sat heavy,like something was waiting for me, just outside the door. Something that didn’t knock. Something that didn’t ask permission.Rosa knocked gently around ten. She was always soft with me, like she was afraid I might break if she raised her voice. “Señorita Sarian?” she called.“I’m okay,” I said, not moving from the edge of the bed.“Do you want breakfast?”I paused, then shook my head. “No. Thank you.”I wasn’t hungry. I needed something else,something bigger than food.Air.I needed air more than anything. Fresh, messy, chaotic air. The kind that didn’t smell like expensive furniture polish or freshly arranged roses. I needed space. Space from the quiet perfection of this mansion. From Julio’s eyes always watching, always reading me like a book he wasn’t sure he shoul

Don JulioThe first few hours after that damn call felt like a lifetime crammed into a handful of heartbeats. My best men, guys I trusted with my life, were out there, turning over every stone in the city. Every connection, every rumor that slithered through the back alleys and dimly lit bars – they were on it. But the silence was deafening. No solid leads. It was like Sarian and the ghosts who snatched her had simply evaporated, leaving no trace.I was a caged animal in my own study. The expensive Persian rug under my feet did little to absorb the restless energy that coursed through me. Back and forth, back and forth, the silence of the house pressing down, thick and suffocating. Only the sharp, insistent ring of my phone dared to break it, and each call was a jab, either another dead end or a fresh wave of agonizing questions.I reached for the crystal decanter on the mahogany bar, the amber liquid inside looking like liquid courage. I poured a generous shot of my finest whiskey, t

SIMEONI knew something was off the moment I walked into the house.The hallway was too quiet.The guards didn’t meet my eyes like they normally did. One even took a step back as I passed. That wasn’t fear. That was shame.And then I heard the footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Too familiar.My father was pacing.I hadn’t seen him in two days. That usually meant trouble was brewing, and now I could feel the weight of it pressing into my skin.I stepped into the main room and found him standing by the bar, one hand gripping a crystal glass so tight I thought it might shatter.Abraham Moretti.Capo of the Bloody Vultures. My father. My general. My curse.“Sit,” he said without looking at me.I obeyed. The leather chair creaked beneath me, but I didn’t say a word. My palms were already sweaty.He turned slowly, placing the glass down with care, like it was more precious than the people he destroyed.Then he walked toward me.And seized me by the collar.I didn’t even have time to blink before h