All Chapters of The Captured Mafia Bride: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Emilio’s POVI locked Brody's still form. “I did not mean to kill him,” I whined. “Is he dead?”Achilles sighed and got up. He walked towards us and placed a hand on Brody's wrist. “No, not dead,” ha said, rolling his eyes at me.“Well, that's just sad,” I gave a dry laugh. “I meant to kill him.”“Fucker,” Xiomar groaned. “We need to stem that wound. As much as I would enjoy being done with him, we do not have Lyla yet.”“Well said, brother,” I replied. I unwrapped the chains from Brody’s arm. “Shut, his wrists are shattered,” I cooed. Removing the chains seemed to take forever and then, I removed the needles.“Itsy bitsy spider was climbing down the hall,” I muttered the song underneath my breath, still focused on the chains around the silly cop’s arms. “Down came the rain and washed the spider down. Then came the sunshine and washed it dry again, and the itsy bitsy spider, learned how to climb again.”“Done,” I announced. I had a headache. I spent all night beating Brody and it seem

Xiomar's POVI carried the sleeping girl in mybeteeen my arms. The other girl, trodged behind me, streaking mud everywhere. “I sthis your home?” She asked softly.“Yes,” I said. The younger girl was still asleep after the long flight, so I placed her carefully in the bed then turned to the teenager. “You need to shower.”She was covered from head to toe in mud, the only colour on her skin was her purple irises. “Are those contacts?” I asked.She tilted her head to the side. “Are what contacts?”“Your eyes. The colour.”“I don't know. I have never seen them before.”I ground my teeth. “How long?”She shrugged, standing awakardly in the big room. “My last birthday, I was five.”“How old are you now?”“Seventeen,” she said, closing her eyes. “They took me on my birthday so, I never forgot it.”She scratched her hand out to me, showing me a black mark on it. It is barely vibike so I wiped the mud away softly, seeing the numbers engraved on her skin.“Here,” Ingriwkwrd, opening the bathroo

My thighs burn so badly that I almost forget they are a part of me. Pain is constant now, like breath, like heartbeat. When the door groans open again, I don’t even raise my head. I don’t have the strength to protest anymore. The routine is always the same. The needle, the prick, the sting that sends liquid fire into my veins. They leave just long enough for the chemicals to flood me, and I sink. Each time it is faster, deeper. They’ve increased the dosage again—I know it because the climb back from madness takes longer. When I resurface, the man is there. He holds me down, rocking me as though he is both captor and cradle. The contradiction makes me sick, yet my body surrenders anyway. My eyes grow heavy. The darkness claims me. I open my eyes later, still swimming in that thick haze. The light has not been switched on today. Shadows pool everywhere, stretching and twisting like they are alive. My arms shake as I try to push myself up from the floor, but my knees give way beneath m

Lyla's POV They dressed me in red.The gown clung to me like liquid fire, spilling down my body in heavy folds that whispered as I walked. It was the color of blood and sacrifice, of roses blooming in the dead of winter. The silk grazed my scars with a lover’s touch, making every wound feel alive again.My hair, once matted and filthy, had been washed until it gleamed black as midnight. It fell in a river down my back, unbound, free, a contrast to the velvet collar tight around my throat. My arms, bare, betrayed me. Every scar, every cut was on display.I thought they might hide me, cover me, make me something polished. Instead, they revealed me. My brokenness was part of the theater.“Stand straighter, little girl” Madam Celeste’s voice cracked like a whip through the vast chamber.I obeyed, or rather tried to. My back arched stiffly, but the pain in my ribs made me falter. I hissed through my teeth, my body trembling.Celeste’s heels clicked against marble as she approached, a sou

Emilio's POVThe world really believed we were dead.A month in hiding. A month of silence while the city moved on without us. A month of whispers turning into certainties. They buried us in their minds, toasted to our downfall, and strutted through alleys they’d never have touched if they thought we were still breathing.I hated every damn second of it.I itched for blood, for vengeance. Beating Brody up was no longer enough as he was now more bones than man, but he managed to give us a lot of useful information now.Lyla's Chip was completely dead.Achilles called it strategy. Xiomar called it survival. Me? I called it prison.I was in the gym, training alone again. This was all I did now, punch at inanimate objects till I grew weak.“Upstairs. Now,” Isaiah’s voice crackled through the intercom, sharp with urgency. “Got something hot.”I was already moving, bootlaces slapping against the wood floor. My blood was itching, restless, craving violence like a starving dog craves bone. A