All Chapters of Bound By The Don's Bloody Bargain : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Olivia POV I saw the man who looked like he’d burn the world down if someone touched me. And that thought scared me more than the bullets. The car rolled to a stop outside the house—no, mansion—and I stepped out before Luciano could open the door for me. I didn’t want the gesture. I didn’t want his protective silence or that low-key storm brewing behind his eyes. I wanted distance. Space. Oxygen. But the moment I slammed the car door and stormed up the steps, he was behind me like a shadow that refused to stay in the dark. “Olivia,” he called, voice too calm for the chaos still clanging in my chest. I spun around. “What? What could you possibly say to make this okay? ‘Sorry about the gunfire, but hey, the cocktails were great’?” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You need to calm down.” Wrong answer. “Calm down?” I laughed—sharp, wild. “Did you see that place? Blood on the walls, glass in my hair, a guy tried to stab me, Luciano. You think a few deep breaths are going to fi

Olivia POV Home. If you could even call this fortified mansion with hidden weapons and security cameras tucked into every goddamn corner a home. I still called it that, though. Because he was here. I didn’t say it out loud. Not because it wasn’t true. But because the truth—especially that one—was sharp. And I was already bleeding from a hundred other places he couldn’t see. As soon as we walked in, I muttered something about needing a shower and disappeared down the hall. I didn’t wait for his reply. I couldn’t. I was holding myself together with gum and stubbornness, and one more glance at Luciano’s storm-dark eyes would’ve been the end of me. My hands were still shaking when I turned the faucet. Warm water hit my skin, tracing the ghost of every bruise, every scratch from last night’s disaster. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, letting the steam blur the edges of everything. The gun. The blood. The way he looked at me after I pulled the trigger. Like I wasn’t the s

Matteo povThe air in my room was still, quiet, laced with the scent of imported Cuban cigars and polished leather. I was lounging on the velvet-lined couch, one leg thrown over the armrest, the glow of my phone screen casting a cold light across my features. Notifications were pouring in—deals confirmed, debts paid, territories secured. Everything was smooth. Until it wasn’t.The door slammed open without warning.Andrew didn’t knock. Bad sign.I didn’t look up immediately. My thumb continued scrolling, casual, uninterested. Because if I snapped at every little hiccup, I wouldn’t be Matteo Ricci, the man they whispered about in ten cities across three countries.“Boss,” Andrew panted, voice sharp with urgency, “the trucks—some of them—many of them—have been seized. Unknown security force. Armed. Military precision. Not police.”My hand froze mid-scroll.“Trucks?” I asked, calm, too calm. My tone always got lower when I was about to get violent. “Which trucks?”Andrew swallowed. “The

Luciano pov The sharp crackle of paper was the only sound in the room, apart from the occasional clink of my watch tapping the desk as I flipped through the reports. Boring. Redundant. Predictable. Shipment delays in Naples. A bribe gone sideways in Palermo. Another bloody rat sniffing too close to our warehouse in Civitavecchia. My fingers paused over a figure that didn’t line up—figures never lied, but people did. The door opened without a knock. Only one person ever got away with that. “Boss.” Marco. His voice smooth, unhurried—too calm for a man who looked like he’d just seen a ghost and shook hands with it. He stepped in, a manila file in hand, his leather shoes silent on the marble. The man had all the elegance of a viper in silk. No wasted movement. Not with him. I didn’t look up. “If that’s another shipment report, toss it in the fire. I’ve read five already and they all say the same thing: somebody’s sleeping on the job.” “It’s not a shipment report.” His tone held a n

Jude pov Ninety days. That’s 2,160 hours. 129,600 minutes since Luciano yanked my sister out of my world and into his. And it hasn’t been quiet since. Not in my head. Not in my chest. Not even for a second. I lit another cigarette with shaking fingers, the smoke curling around my jaw like a noose I’d learned to wear like a damn necklace. I sat in the armless iron chair on the balcony, leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the dark skyline of the city like it owed me answers. My left hand clutched a half-empty glass of bourbon, the ice long melted, just like my last nerve. Olivia. She wasn’t just my sister—she was my goddamn anchor. And I’d let her be taken like some piece of collateral. She wasn’t money. She wasn’t a debt. She was mine. I hated myself for letting her go. But Luciano hadn’t given me a choice. I tipped the rest of the bourbon back and felt the familiar burn travel down my throat. Didn’t matter. Pain had stopped being a stranger a long time ago.