All Chapters of The Tycoon’s Temptress - Red Flower’s Chase: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Raffaele’s POV The shed was barely more than a wooden box pressed against the jungle. A kerosene lamp flickered on the nightstand, casting soft amber light that made the sweat on Valentina’s skin glow. At least it was I who made her sweaty, I thought and smirked. Outside, cicadas played their cricketing music. The heat and darkness were thick. The scent of damp soil and old wood mixed with her vanilla-coconut perfume. Swear to God, she’d wear perfume to her own funeral. So intoxicating it should be illegal. Somewhere in the trees, the jaguar howled—far off, but close enough to remind us this place wasn’t safe. I laid with Valentina in my arms, her jet-black hair tangled and damp, cascading down her back. I ran my fingers through the strands, savoring the weight of her against me. She fit so perfectly there—pressed to my chest like she belonged nowhere else. “I love you, Mrs. Ricchezza,” I murmured, kissing her forehead. She answered with a kiss on my lips—soft, like a

Domenico Ricchezza’s POV The meeting room smelled faintly of polish and citrus. Dark wood panels lined the walls, broken only by old family portraits—Ricchezza men and their wives frozen in time, painted with meticulous care. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting soft light over the polished floor. Outside, the grass was perfectly trimmed with apple trees in bloom. Giuliana, my wife, had fresh flowers arranged outdoors, her favorites; orchids and white roses, subtle and expensive. Everything looked in order. On the surface, at least. I sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the Ricchezza estate’s meeting room, fingers steepled in front of me. The air was still, heavy with the weight of decisions that would be made before the hour was over. “Kareem,” I said flatly. “I’m tired of wasting years cleaning up this family’s incompetence. I need to put a stop to it today.” I began thrumming my fingers against the table with short, clipped beats of impatience. “

Valentina’s POV I sat in one of Raffaele’s black Maybachs. Low-key luxury, sleek and silent. Kareem and Nabil were in the front, and the car had been fitted with extra bulletproof windows. “Mrs. Ricchezza,” Kareem joked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, “this car can take a serious beating. Don’t look so nervous—relax!” “I’m also here to protect you!” Nabil added with a grin. “Normally Kareem’s on Maria-duty, your bestie, but we make exceptions for you, my lady.” “You’re both so annoying it actually works,” I muttered, a crooked smile breaking through. “I try to be fearless, but I guess it’s not working so well,” I sighed. “Everyone’s just trying to kill me these days.” “If it’s not Tariq or Tullio…Miles…Khalid… the list goes on.” Kareem let out a low whistle. “Damn, missis—you’ve got quite the enemies list.” “But you’re not dead yet,” he added with a grin. “Bet they hate you for that. It always adds charm.” “Ugh. You’re so full of yourself.” I said to them. “Well, w

Raffaele’s POV The Ricchezza research lab was sleek, modern, and spotless, every surface gleamed under the soft overhead lighting with a strong smell of disinfectants. Large glass panels let in natural light, and the quiet buzz of high-end equipment filled the space. Around ten researchers moved efficiently between workstations, examining samples, recording data on tablets, and running controlled tests with the latest centrifuges and microscopes. Polished steel counters held neatly organized vials, pipettes, and trays of liquids. Everything about the place radiated precision and quiet intensity, a luxury lab built for breakthroughs. Then I saw her. Valentina stood by the entrance. Her black over-the-knee dress hugged her figure, belted in gold-chain at the waist. She wore low heels, and on her arm hung the crocodile-embossed baguette handbag I’d bought from Denmark. Her heels clicked softly as she stepped in, but her gaze was locked on me—somewhere between desire and chal

Valentina’s POV The Ricchezza suite was like a tropical dream of cream silk and light wood, its arched windows spilling morning light across the garden’s roses, now vibrant red and gold under the Baghdad sun. I lay curled in the plush bed, the sheets still warm from Raffaele’s body, my skin tingling with the memory of last night. Our previous encounters had been raw, a fierce need to melt into each other, but last night was different—slow, tender, a passion I hadn’t known I craved. It was addictive, like everyone said love could be. My legs felt like jelly, and I didn’t think I could stand even if I wanted to. A light knock rattled the door. “Mrs and Mr Ricchezza, it’s Dr. Abdul Rahman. He wants to see you!” one of the other maids shouted from the hallway, her voice bright and urgent. Raffaele, already up, was fixing his light blue tie against a crisp navy suit, his fingers loosening his collar with practiced ease. He glanced at me, his dark eyes softening before he strode