Mafia King's Contract Wife: The Angel of Revenge のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 101 - チャプター 110

Miley's POV The skies opened again just before dawn.It wasn’t ordinary rain anymore — it felt heavier, colder, like the clouds themselves were grieving. The officers tried to offer me an umbrella as we stepped through the cemetery gates, but I shook my head. I wanted to feel every drop. If my mother had been left out here in the dark and the cold all these years, the least I could do was stand in it with her now.They had already cleared the perimeter when we arrived. No press. No curious onlookers. Nico made sure of it. He stood a few steps behind me, silent and unmovable, shoulders squared like he was shielding me from something he couldn’t see.The coffin took forever to surface. Every scrape of metal against wood made my nails dig deeper into my palm. The men lifted it slowly, reverently, placing it on the platform like it was a fragile relic. In a way, it was.“Mrs. Romano,” the lead officer said softly, stepping toward me. “Before we proceed with the standard examination, we n

Miley's POV I drove with both hands on the wheel and the windows cracked just enough for the rain to slip in. The cold air helped me think; sometimes you need something sharp in your lungs to keep the emotions from rising too high.Her house was exactly the way I remembered it—small, ivy climbing up the walls, red shutters flaking with age. It used to be my favorite place when I was a child. She kept jars of buttons on the windowsill and let me pretend they were gemstones. Back then, I actually believed adults were good.I cut the engine and sat there for a few seconds, staring at the front door.You came here for answers. Not memories.So I got out of the car and went up the walkway in the rain.I didn’t even have to knock. The door opened before my hand touched it.“Miley,” she said, in the exact voice she used when I was little. As if no time had passed at all.“Mrs. Barlow,” I replied, trying to manage a smile.She ushered me inside like she’d been waiting for me. The hallway sme

Nico's POV Rain had started up again by the time I reached the end of the street. Not a downpour, just a slow, cold drizzle that slicked the pavement and made headlights bleed across the asphalt.I don’t know why I glanced in the rearview mirror when I did. Habit, maybe. Instinct.But I saw it.A black sedan. No lights on. Sliding in behind us from two blocks back.At first it was nothing. Every major road in London is crawling with cars and paranoia will eat you alive if you start assuming every shadow is the enemy.But then it changed lanes when I did.Twice.That was enough.I kept my voice calm. “Seatbelt on, dove,” I said quietly.From the passenger seat, Miley looked up from the folder in her lap. “What?”“Seatbelt,” I repeated.The sedan switched lanes again—closing the distance.I locked us in and pressed my foot down just enough to test their reaction. They sped up.That’s when I knew.I took the next turn hard, boosting us into a narrow service road lined with old brick war

Miley's POV I don’t know what possessed me to come here at this hour, but Church Street had always carried a strange pull for me. The rain-slicked pavement glistened under the faint orange glow of the streetlights, and the old cathedral loomed ahead like a watchful sentinel. Its spire pierced the stormy sky, almost accusing, as though reminding me of sins I hadn’t yet confessed. My heels clicked against the wet stone, too loud for my own liking, echoing into the silence where no voices should exist.I tightened my coat around me, feeling the night wind cut through the fabric. Church Street was nearly deserted at this time. A stray dog limped across the narrow lane and disappeared into an alley. A street vendor’s cart, long abandoned, stood with its wheels half-sunk into the mud, its tarp flapping with every gust of wind. My heart thudded harder the closer I drew to the church.This was the place where whispers always led me. Where people claimed Isabella had been seen the last time b

Miley’s POVRain pelted Church Street like bullets, bouncing off the pavement and soaking through my coat before I even had a chance to zip it up. My boots squelched against the waterlogged cobblestones as I stepped deeper into the alley, clutching the small umbrella I’d pulled from the car. Every flickering streetlight cast shadows that leapt and twisted in the puddles. I knew I shouldn’t feel this exposed, not after years of navigating the shadows of other people’s lies—but the truth had a way of leaving me raw, unshielded. I paused beneath the narrow overhang of a shuttered café, trying to steady my breathing. The ledger I had found yesterday, wedged between piles of old invoices at my mother’s last studio, was still in my bag, damp from the drizzle. Every page I had skimmed hinted at a meticulous record of suppliers, names, payments—some marked with tiny symbols I didn’t yet understand. One mark in particular caught my eye: a small rose beside a shipment of gemstones, the kind th