Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Tycoon’s Temptress - Red Flower’s Chase: Kabanata 81 - Kabanata 90

Tullio Cavaliere's POV The Tigris river flows north to south through the heart of Baghdad city, and many luxury buildings, embassies, and older palaces are positioned along its banks. Just like mine. I own a restored Ottoman-style Baghdadi villa, with arched windows and ornate balconies. That kind of haunting elegance that masks the years of wear scraped away from its façade—now polished over with a fresh slab of paint, overlooking the river. Inside, my villa is a surprising blend of Ottoman elegance and Gothic grandeur. It’s beautiful, but never warm since she left. What I really need is Maria Medri. Only she can make this house feel alive again. I’m looking out over the waters, watching over history, corruption, and chaos—but me? I’m above all that. Maria’s room is the only place I’ve never let anyone else arrange. The floors are dark wood, and the walls are full-height raised paneling—you could call it Georgian or Neoclassical, but here it’s reinterpreted with a Goth

Maria Medri’s POV I slipped on my blue swimsuit just as the sun rose. It was already hot outside—typical lush morning at the Ricchezza beach house on the Al-Faw Peninsula. The Persian Gulf shimmered under the sun, calm and endless, with that soft breeze that made you forget everything for a second. I missed Valentina. She was off in Switzerland with Raffaele, chasing orichalcum and red flowers and whatever other insanity they’d stumbled into this time. Meanwhile, I was here, trying to keep myself distracted. Lorenzo was stretched out on the stone path, lazy as ever, purring like a giant spoiled cat. I sat down beside him and buried my face in his mane. His warmth, the steady rumble in his chest—it was the closest thing I had to her. It helped. But only a little. “All right, all right, Lorenzo—I’ll have the servants bring you some snacks,” I joked, ruffling his mane. “Lamb or cow?” He let out a low roar, as if actually thinking it over, then huffed like he’d s

Valentina’s POV Raffaele had taken us to Bürgenstock Resort Lake Lucerne. A luxurious cliffside estate, 500 meters above the lake, with a glass-walled chalet-style wing, panoramic alpine views, spa facilities, and soaring terraces. We even had to ride a funicular to reach it. But after the way we fought—and barely escaping death—I was completely alone. Raffaele had been gone all night, that empty look still burned into my mind. He did exactly what he said he would. Slammed the door, cold and sharp, and left. I sat curled up in cream-colored loungewear, clutching my knees. Trying to hold my shit together. Our room is so luxurious, a modern alpine suite with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking panoramic view of Lake Lucerne. The design blends warm wood tones with sleek stone finishes. It features a plush bed with crisp linens, a sitting area by the window, and a glass-walled bathroom with dual sinks and soft ambient lighting. The space feels both cozy an

Valentina’s POV Kareem was eyeing me from the side as I sat stiff across from him on Raffaele’s private jet. Then he turned toward Raffaele, clearly amused. “I heard your protective instincts are clashing with Valentina’s reckless determination,” he said with a grin. “It’s not funny, Kareem!” I pouted. “Well, it kind of is,” he chuckled. “You’re trying to get us all killed within five minutes. You’re brave like Lorenzo, I’ll give you that—but this…” Nabil cut in smoothly, “This requires finesse. We’ll help you, Mrs. Ricchezza. Don’t you worry.” They all burst out laughing. “Don’t make fun of me!” I said crossing my legs and shifting in my seat. “I know, I know!” Kareem raised his hands in mock surrender. “You just want to blow Tullio’s brains out with your sweetheart-grip pistol.” Kareem made a surprisingly cute simulation of me aiming the sweetheart-grip pistol, complete with sound effects. Nabil clutched his chest and slumped dramatically in his chair like he was bleeding

Tullio Cavaliere’s POV I was looking at the big screen in my Ottoman-style Baghdadi villa—the one with arched windows and ornate balconies where the Tigris River flowed beneath. It always moved the same way. Steady, unhurried, and certain of its course. It mirrors me—smooth, deliberate, always flowing exactly the way I intend. “Basim,” I chuckled, content. “That signal path they followed. It was rerouted through a ghost server in Erbil. That was you, wasn’t it? Your signature work. Beautifully done.” Basim spun around in his swivel chair, grinning like a child showing off a science project. “Those fake coordinates did their job well.” “Since I’m an expert in cyber-sabotage,” Basim said smugly, spinning the mouse beneath his fingers, “I handle hacking, surveillance manipulation, and digital disruption. The trifecta.” I smiled. “Lethal trifecta, Basim. Your precision always hits the mark.” I clapped my hands in delight. Then I laughed—loud and satisfied. “It exploi