Semua Bab Bound By Mafia Blood: Bab 111 - Bab 120

To hunt monsters, sometimes you must become one.Marseille – 1:12 a.m. - Abandoned Wine Distillery, Port Sector 4The storm overhead hadn’t broken, but it loomed thick with heat and the promise of ruin. PppppInside the rusted walls of the distillery, Talana stood with her back to the open bay door. The wind whipped through the space like a warning. Her hair was pulled tight in a braid, sleeves rolled up, boots stained with saltwater.The man tied to the chair in front of her was barely conscious.Thorne’s Marseille handler. Name: François Moreux. Covered in tattoos, too arrogant to be clever, but smart enough to know the exact value of every crate of flesh they moved through these docks.Blood ran down his face. His shirt was shredded. Two of his fingers were broken. His lips were split and trembling. Still, he grinned through it. “You think this changes anything? Thorne will rebuild, he always does.”Talana crouched slowly in front of him.“No,” she said softly, wiping a smear of blo

“Empires don’t fall overnight. But they can begin to rot in a single heartbeat.”The villa was quiet, too quiet for a city that had just claimed another empire’s corpse.Rain tapped against the tall windows like a clock running out of time. The fires from the sinking yacht still hadn’t left the news cycle, but inside the stone walls of the Sanchiano estate, silence reigned.Talana stood in the war room, a single lamp casting gold over her face, hollowing the shadows beneath her eyes. Her blood-red gown from the gala had been discarded. She wore black slacks, a silk shirt clinging damp to her spine, and her braid had been undone, loose, wild, like the storm outside.The map before her was littered with pins and torn ledger pages, territories once ruled by De Marco, Donatello, and Thorne. Most of them were red now. Burned, broken and claimed. But some weren’t. Some still breathed.Behind her, Massimo watched from the doorway, arms crossed. He didn’t speak. He had been watching her for h

The underground chamber smelled of candle smoke and salt-damp stone. It had once been a crypt, hollowed beneath a forgotten monastery buried in the edge of Venice, but now it was reborn as a war room, a sanctum of shadows and surveillance.Donatello stood before a wall of screens, arms behind his back, the flickering light illuminating his silver hair and the sharp shadows under his eyes. Dozens of monitors streamed hacked footage from every corner of Europe, but only one screen held his gaze, the one centered on the Sanchiano chapel.Talana Fabrizio-Sanchiano stood motionless on the feed, back turned, silhouetted by Roman morning light. The chapel’s sanctity did little to soften the fury wrapped around her frame like a second skin. Donatello didn’t blink. He studied her as though decoding a scripture in blood.“She didn’t cry,” he said quietly.Behind him, the mole in Vatican robes hesitated. He was young, nervous, sweat slicking the collar of his clerical shirt. “No, sir, but the si

The drive from Venice to Catanzaro was conducted in silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that weighed down every heartbeat like ash. Rain streaked the windows of the armored vehicle, washing the residue of fire from their clothes but not from their minds.Talana sat with her arm resting in a makeshift sling, her wounded shoulder wrapped in gauze. Gianna had cleaned and bandaged it as best she could in the back of the van, her hands trembling but precise. Across from her, Massimo sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes locked on the encrypted tablet.“Any word from Lorenzo and Mariano?” Talana asked finally.“They’re two hours behind,” Massimo replied. “Took a separate route in case we were followed.”Talana leaned back, letting the thrum of the tires lull her into stillness. But stillness wasn’t peace. Her mind played the Venice chamber again and again, the dead priest’s face, the shattered monitor, Donatello’s mocking voice.When they finally rolled through the w

War didn’t arrive with fanfare. It crept across maps, blinking red lights and encrypted coordinates. After the Red Reaping was severed, the remaining limbs of Donatello and De Marco’s global trafficking network continued to twitch beneath the surface.Talana was no longer reactive. She was surgical. The Morelli-Sanchiano alliance became the scalpel.The first phase of global dismantling launched in the cover of night. Targets were precise: smuggling ports, corrupted embassies, and ghost-ran airfields. None would survive the week.Marseille – Dockside Warehouse, Mariano moved like a phantom. Clad in black, his comms buzzed with coded directives from the Catanzaro command.Two shipping crates marked as “ritual wine” were pried open. Inside: restraints, pharmaceuticals, and falsified medical clearances. Another crate held frozen embryos, each vial tagged with Vatican clearance seals.“God help them,” one soldier murmured.“God’s not here,” Mariano muttered. “Only fire.”Within minutes, t