All Chapters of Bound By Mafia Blood: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The morning sky over Berlin was steel gray, the clouds hanging low as if mourning something unseen. Talana stood by the window of the Sanchiano safehouse, her hands clasped behind her back, watching the city churn below. Her eyes were hollowed by too many sleepless nights, the reflection in the glass no longer the girl who had arrived weeks ago, but a Dona forged by war and betrayal.A sharp knock at the door. "Come," she said without turning.Mariano stepped inside, a tablet in his hand and fresh bruises marking his jaw. "We intercepted something from Calabria. Roberto sent this. Top priority."Talana took the tablet, and Mariano lingered silently as she tapped the screen. The video began to play, Roberto, seated in his villa study, gaunt but sharp-eyed, his tone laced with steel."Talana, this is not a confession, but a warning. One of the families you've reached out to in Berlin, the Altobellis, they are not who they claim. We have eyes on their movements. They met with De Marco's

The storm over Berlin had begun to mirror what stirred in Talana.Heavy rain ran in rivulets down the tall windows of the safehouse, streaking across the distorted reflection of her face as she stood silent, arms folded, gaze locked on the distant skyline. Somewhere out there, another outpost burned, one of De Marco’s mid-level data hubs that Mariano’s team had gutted just before dawn.Talana hadn’t spoken much after they returned. Not during the debriefing. Not even when Matteo tried to joke that they were running out of safehouses to torch.She was stone, colder than the rain, and Massimo could feel it from where he sat, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand and the weight of months resting on his shoulders.“You didn’t sleep,” he said, quietly.She didn’t turn. “Didn’t need to.”“You haven’t slept in three days.”“Then maybe I’ll sleep when this city chokes on its ashes.”Massimo’s brow tightened. He stood and crossed the room, setting the glass down. She still wouldn’t look at

The rain had stopped, but Berlin remained cloaked in a heavy fog, the kind that blurred the edges of memory and made even the most familiar streets feel foreign. Talana stood on the rooftop of the safehouse, hands wrapped around a chipped porcelain mug of lukewarm espresso, watching as the city below exhaled smoke, neon, and sin.Behind her, the door creaked open, soft footfalls approaching. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Massimo. She felt him the way she felt the beat of her own heart, constant, deep, and dangerous when provoked.“There’s someone downstairs,” he said quietly, voice roughened by smoke and early morning silence. “Says he’s De Marco’s emissary.”Talana didn’t flinch. “Did he come armed?”“He came alone. With a box.”She turned then, eyes sharpening like a scalpel sliding from velvet. “Let’s meet the messenger.”The man looked like he’d been borrowed from a funeral parlor, thin, pale, hair slicked flat to his skull, with the dead-eyed calm of someone who’d long s

The Berlin safehouse had gone quiet in the way morgues do. Not peaceful. Just still.The hallway reeked of bleach and blood. Talana stood outside the converted infirmary, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, every inch of her taut with fury she hadn’t yet named. Behind her, Matteo paced like a man caged with guilt.“I tasted the coffee myself,” he muttered. “It was routine. From our own stores.”“Two dead,” Talana said, voice low and controlled. “Six down with convulsions. Mariano’s back in the ICU. That’s not routine.”Massimo stepped into view from the shadows at the end of the hall, his face unreadable, his clothes still dusty from the Budapest op. “What do we know?”Matteo stopped. “Not much. The toxin was laced into the espresso pot, reserved only for our top men. Whoever did this had access to internal stores and time to plan.”Talana finally moved, her boots echoing down the hall. “Then we don’t need a suspect list. We need a confession.”The storage cellar hadn’t been used

The smell of gasoline and gunpowder hung in the Marseille air like a death shroud. Massimo’s lungs burned as he ran, the weight of his Kevlar vest pulling at him with every breath. The ambush had come too fast, too clean. Whoever planned it knew the Morelli movement patterns, their fallback routes. The Dogs of Moscow had leveled the safehouse with anti-tank launchers, not caring that it sat near a civilian block.The moment the first explosion ripped through the compound’s northern wall, he’d barked orders into the comms. “Split and scatter. Secondary extraction in ten.” Then silence, broken only by gunfire.Now, he was bleeding. Not fatally. It was a graze across the ribs, shrapnel tearing through the left forearm, but his grip on the pistol was firm. He crouched behind a butchered van in an alley, the night alive with screams, sirens, and shouting in French and Russian. One of his men, Nico, lay motionless nearby.Massimo cursed, closed his eyes for half a second. Talana. She was i