All Chapters of The Mafia Protocol: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Camilla had always known that power came at a cost—but she hadn’t realized until now that keeping it was the true war. The early morning sun slanted through the penthouse windows, casting gold over the remnants of last night’s chaos. A shattered tumbler of bourbon still lay near the fireplace. Blood—Lorenzo’s—had dried on the soles of her boots. She hadn’t slept. Neither had Riccardo. He stood at the head of the war table, shirtless, the muscles in his back tense as he reviewed the photos Mateo had brought in. Satellite images, dock manifests, encrypted messages decoded only hours ago. The betrayal ran deeper than Lorenzo. That was just the surface. The first ripple. “The leak wasn’t just about Midtown,” Riccardo said, his voice low and flint-sharp. “Someone’s been feeding intel to Bruno’s network for months. Every movement we’ve made—the delays, the missing shipments—it was all orchestrated.” Camilla leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. She’d changed out of her blood-slick

The Falcone estate became a command center overnight. Encrypted communications flickered across screens. Maps were rolled open and marked with red ink. Trusted lieutenants were recalled from safe houses. The walls themselves felt like they were listening—as if the estate knew a war was brewing just beyond the gates. Camilla stood at the center of it all, no longer the outsider sold into this world, but its storm-forged queen. Riccard sat beside her at the head of the table, his shoulder bandaged but his voice firm. “The ledger confirms Valentin Chernov is alive,” he said. “Which means this war runs deeper than Kirov or Lorenzo Vitali. This is about retribution. And legacy.” Marco leaned forward. “You think Chernov’s building his own syndicate?” “No,” Riccard replied. “He’s building something worse. He’s uniting the ghosts of every empire we’ve crushed. Ex-French operatives, South American cartels, even rogue elements from MI6. And he’s using our history—Camilla’s father’s ledger

The estate was no longer just a sanctuary—it was a fortress. After the Berlin attack, the staff was halved, security tripled. Drones hovered overhead day and night. Marco personally vetted every guard, every shipment, every piece of tech that entered or exited the grounds. And still, the air felt thinner. Like war was seeping through the cracks. Riccardo stood at the window of his study, watching the morning fog roll over the gardens. His knuckles were raw from hitting the training bags too hard. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Not after Valentin’s message. Not after seeing her picture in that man’s hand. Camilla entered quietly, dressed in black. Her hair tied back, her stance calm—but he could see the strain in her shoulders. “You’re not going to say it,” she said. He turned to her, one brow raised. She walked closer. “That this is your fault. That you should’ve killed Valentin when you had the chance. That you let Antonio get too close. That it’s all unraveling.” His silence wa

By dawn, the estate had been turned inside out. Walls stripped. Ceilings scanned. Every square inch of Riccardo’s stronghold was being swept for Valentin’s eyes. The security team worked in shifts, led by Dorian and Elias, but the truth weighed heavier than any weapon. Rossi had walked these halls like family. Slept beneath their roof. Sat at their table. And the whole time, he’d been a blade pointed at their backs. Isadora’s voice cut through the tension. “I’ve scrubbed the data. He sent over two hundred recordings—audio and visual—to a remote server.” Riccardo glanced up from the table. “Can you trace it?” She hesitated. “Only partway. Valentin’s server hops across three countries. But there’s a pattern in the timestamps. They correspond with one place he never disguised.” Camilla leaned in. “Where?” “Geneva.” Marco cursed. “That’s neutral territory.” “Not anymore,” Riccardo said coldly. “If he’s nesting there, we burn the nest.” But Camilla’s mind was turning on another

The train to Prague cut through mist and shadow like a knife. Steel wheels on ancient rails, frost creeping up the windows, and Camilla’s reflection caught in the glass—eyes that hadn’t slept in days, a jaw clenched with the weight of choices. She had the Omega file in her coat pocket. A name on a page. But to her, it was more than that. Vincenzo Callas. Her mother’s cousin. Her father’s rival. A man who had once lit a fire beneath her family’s empire, only to vanish into the smog of scandal, prison, and presumed death. And now, he was alive. Under Valentin’s banner. The compartment door slid open. Marco stepped in, shaking off the cold. He hadn’t wanted her to come alone. But she had insisted. “You know if we find him,” Marco said, folding his arms, “this won’t be a negotiation.” Camilla looked out the window. “I’m not here to make peace.” He sat beside her, voice low. “You ever ask your mother about him?” “She said he was brilliant. Ambitious. But broken in ways none of