Semua Bab The Lie that Binds: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Serena For what felt like an eternity later, Serena could breathe again. Carefully, she mounted down from the bathroom counter, instinctively trying not to close her legs together. She got into the shower and vigorously scrubbed her skin under steam. An attempt to get rid of his scent. An attempt that wouldn't stop her mind from reeling from the implications of the abomination she had just committed. An abomination she enjoyed every bit of, no less.Soon she was out in her bedroom, fully dressed and ready for the day, yet Stefano hadn't returned. This only made matters worse in her head. Does he know already?Did he hear?She hoped to hell he didn't. She stared a little longer at her reflection, mentally cursing herself. ‘I'm a mess. A fucked up, selfish, impulsive, naive, vile, deceitful, harlot! Fuck! What do I do from here!?’Of course, she begrudged herself what she had done. But only because it made her life tougher and more complicated than it already is. All she wanted was

Stefano and Marco The angry sun bore down from the sky, punishing the desert with a heat that shimmered off the cracked earth. Sand stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by two matte black SUVs parked on a makeshift dirt road, tires half-buried in the gritty terrain. The windows were tinted, the engines silent, radiating residual heat from the long drive. There was no movement, no sound beyond the low whisper of wind and the faint ticking of cooling metal.Inside the first SUV, Marco sat in the front seat, his elbow resting on the open window frame. He wore a tailored gray suit with a black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sweat prickling at the collar despite the vehicle's failing air conditioning. His eyes scanned the horizon, jaw tense, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel.In the back seat, Stefano sat still and silent. Unlike his consigliere, he was immaculate. Charcoal suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sunglasses perched low on his

Stefano The roaring inferno before them cast long, flickering shadows across the desert sand. Smoke rose like a black flag into the empty sky, carrying with it the memories of a thousand secrets buried in the charred remains of Stefano De Ricco’s countryside estate. The mansion had stood as a symbol of power and protection, but now it lay in ruins, collapsing piece by piece in a funeral of fire and betrayal.Stefano stood motionless at the front gates, the hof scorching wind whipping his suit coat open, the heat from the explosion still blistering against his skin. His hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every breath he took with rage.burned"How the fuck did they find us?" he muttered, more to himself than to Marco.Marco was beside him, eyes fixed on the flames. His usual calm was nowhere to be found. His knuckles were clenched in a tight fist, the fury in his eyes that burned hotter than the fire. "I don’t know," he responded, voice sharp. "Bu

Serena She awoke to the touch of unfamiliar luxury against her skin. Red velvet sheets cocooned her, plush and decadent, their texture a soft whisper against her bare legs. Her eyes blinked open to a ceiling painted in breathtaking frescoes—angels swirling in clouds, gilded vines twisting through golden beams. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if she’d woken in a dream or a gallery in the Vatican. The room around her shimmered with old-world grandeur. Marble pillars flanked the king-sized bed, their white stone veined with silver. Ornate wall sconces held flickering candle-shaped bulbs that cast warm amber light across textured walls. Every corner was a study in craftsmanship: mahogany moldings, antique mirrors, velvet drapes the color of wine. A grand chandelier hung high above, dripping with crystal teardrops. But despite the elegance, it wasn’t sterile or cold. It felt lived in. A home wrapped in the disguise of a museum. And yet, she was alone. Her throat was dry, her head heav

There was little left of the captured Russian named Lorenzo Ivanovich, that looked human, by the time Stefano was done with him.He was bound to a metal chair inside a windowless room; concrete walls, blood-stained floor, and a single overhead light that flickered like it was trying to look away. Stefano leaned forward slowly, the barrel of his silenced Glock tapping Lorenzo’s knee in slow, deliberate beats.“You have two choices,” Stefano said, voice flat. “You take me to Morozov. Or I kill your family. One by one.”Lorenzo was missing three fingernails. His face was swollen, one eye sealed shut with blood and skin. But he still had enough strength to mutter something in Russian under his breath, something defiant.Stefano didn’t respond with words. He nodded to one of his men. A door opened.The screen flickered on the wall. Stefano had made sure of the setup beforehand; remote access to the feed, full surveillance. Lorenzo’s grandparents sat in their modest kitchen, visibly shaken.