Semua Bab I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. : Bab 61 - Bab 70

Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡 He’s been avoiding my calls for a week. Seven days. Twenty-one missed calls. Three text messages I deleted before sending. Two I didn’t. No reply. I keep telling myself maybe he’s just busy. Maybe there’s a family emergency. Maybe he lost his phone or dropped it in a sewer or is out of the country or... I don’t know, anything but the actual truth clawing its way up my throat. You don’t just forget to call someone for seven days unless you’re trying not to. And I think I knew the truth by day three. I just didn’t want to face it. He slept with me... and regretted it. He used me or worse, he didn’t even think it was using. Maybe it was just a night to him. A mistake. A checkmark on a list. And the second it was over, so was I. And that’s what keeps replaying in my head as I stand here at the edge of the dining room in my spotless uniform, holding a tray of lentil tartlets with edible flowers, pretending like I’m fine. Like I didn’t cry in the locker r

Told from Afar 𓎢𓎠𓎟𖦁‎𓎟𓎠𓎡 Alessia hadn’t slept in days. Maybe she'd dozed off for a few seconds here and there, but even then, her mind kept dragging her back... back to Silvio. His face. His laugh. The way he used to pout like a spoiled little prince whenever she scolded him. Now all she saw when she closed her eyes was blood. Rope. Torture. Food meant nothing to her anymore. Claire had tried, but Alessia couldn’t stomach a single bite unless it was forced down. Everything tasted like ash. The world had stopped spinning the moment Silvio disappeared. Her Silvio. He was just a boy when his mother died, six years old, still soft in the face, still afraid of the dark. Alessia had stepped in, and he clung to her like a shadow back then, and she let him. Because she needed him, too. Because her own daughter had been the same age. Because every time Silvio looked up at her with those big, wide eyes, it felt like getting a piece of her baby back. A second chance. And now he was go

Adriano ⫘☠︎︎⫘ “Talk to me,” I said low into the phone, fingers threaded through Flan’s fur. “She’s safe, boss,” came the voice on the line. “After she clocked out from Velluto Rosso, she hopped a bus to the north side, Jason Reed’s place. Stayed the night on his couch. We had eyes on her the whole time. No threats. No contact with the ex. Apartment secure.” I exhaled slowly, jaw tight, pulse still roaring like it hadn’t gotten the message. Flan purred under my palm, as I stared out the window at nothing. My reflection was just a black shape in the glass. I could still see her face when she looked up at me yesterday, scared. She was scared of me. And all I wanted was to wrap my hands around her fear and crush it into dust. “How many men on her?” I asked finally. “Three on her at all times. Rotating every six hours. Cameras are up outside the building. Reed doesn’t know. Neither does she.” I nodded slowly, though no one could see it. My thumb dragged across the curve of Flan’

Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡 The house hadn’t changed. The hallway still smelled of eucalyptus and floor polish. The walls were the same, they’d been when I was sixteen, and someone had finally fixed the creaky tile by the front door. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the photo frame still hanging crooked above the credenza, our last family vacation before they packed me up and sent me to the U.S. Now I was back here, alive, breathing and hugged within an inch of my life. But the only thing I could think about was the man who brought me here. Adriano Capone. I had only looked away for a second, just one blink, and when I turned back, he was gone. As if he was never here. As if I’d dreamed of the private jet bedroom and the fresh bandages and being lifted out of Jason's apartment. I couldn’t explain all of it, not to myself, not to my family. So I didn’t try. Instead, I let them talk. “Her hair is longer!” my aunt Patrícia gasped, hugging me from behind and str

Madeleine 𓎢𓎠𑄻𑄾𓎠𓎡 My dad hadn’t stopped watching him. From the kitchen island, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Adriano, was it?” he asked, like he already hated him but was willing to delay murder until dessert. “Yes, senhor,” Adriano answered respectfully, “Adriano Capone.” Oh my God, he used his last name. I could practically feel the collective mental gasp ripple through the room. My dad’s brow twitched, “Italian?” “Yes,” he said smoothly, like he’d had this conversation before. “Sicilian heritage. My family settled in Chicago a few generations ago. Still have the old estate in Sicily but it's a bit too cold for my taste," he said it casually, like everyone had an estate and casually disliked winter in Italy. Stop sounding expensive, I wanted to scream. Everyone else just... stared. Uncle Jorginho had that face, the same one he made when our neighbor once pulled up in a BMW. That mix of suspicion and low-level awe. Sofi gasped, “Capone... Capone?” she asked, all wide eyes