All Chapters of Married to my Dad's Billionaire Mafia Friend: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

"Alright, let's get down to business. We've got a problem with the rival family, and I want to know what we're going to do about it," Leonard said.The chandelier above the meeting hall scattered its light like morning dew, casting sharp diamonds across the obsidian-polished table. Everything gleamed—pristine, almost too perfect. Grace and her girls had clearly outdone themselves. The room gave off a dark elegance, a place where whispered threats and power plays were sealed with nods, not paper.Six men were seated around the circular table, all older than Leonard, yet none questioned his place at the head. Despite being the youngest, he wore authority like a second skin."We've been monitoring their movements. They seem to be expanding their territory, and we think they're gonna make a move on our turf," Preston Reed said, his gruff voice cutting through the thick atmosphere. A man in his early fifties, hardened by decades of blood deals and betrayals."Expand their territory? Ha! Th

“Babe, why are you troubled?” a deep, husky voice cut through the low hum of rain tapping the rooftop of the towering skyscraper.Outside, the storm poured with relentless sorrow, its droplets cascading like tears down the expansive glass windows of the penthouse. Inside, the room was warm and dimly lit, painted with an air of brooding luxury. A woman stood facing an abstract painting mounted on the wall—bold red lines clashing against streaks of black and gray. She matched the painting in her form: clad in a fitted crimson dress, lips equally scarlet, eyes simmering with fury.It was Thelma.She slowly turned away from the artwork and locked eyes with the man lounging casually on the velvet couch behind her. His posture was relaxed, legs crossed, a glass of bourbon in hand, though his eyes betrayed a calculated alertness. He was the sort of man whose presence filled a room even when he said nothing—a mystery cloaked in charisma.“You heard what happened, didn’t you?” Thelma’s voice b

The silence that had blanketed the room like fog after Leonard threw the glass was abruptly shattered by laughter—sharp, unexpected, and maddening.Logan’s head leaned back slightly as he let out a loud, taunting laugh, blood trickling down from the cut on his cheek. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then looked directly at his older brother. “Yes,” he said, voice dripping with bitter amusement, “this is who you really are.”Leonard’s chest heaved with rage, his knuckles pale from how tightly he clenched his fists. “Where did you take her to?” he demanded, voice still shaking from fury.“I—” Sophia began softly, stepping forward.“I wasn’t asking you,” Leonard cut in sharply, not even sparing her a glance. His eyes were locked on Logan’s, blazing. “Where did you take her?”Logan scoffed, tossing Leonard’s glare back at him like a challenge. “We went to the hospital to see her mom. Got a problem with that?”“You’re telling me,” Leonard’s voice now had an edge of something dangerou

"You brothers have a habit of throwing things," Massimo said with a smirk, his voice light, but layered with judgment. He held a clean t-shirt and a pair of black trousers in his hands, standing just inside Logan’s bedroom door. The door hung half-open, and the room was in shambles. Broken brushes, shattered mirrors, bedsheets in tangles on the floor, and one of the pillows lodged into the corner of the room like it had been hurled there with fury. Logan stood in the middle, his chest heaving and his shirt damp with sweat and rainwater. His face, already bruised from a fight earlier, was bleeding again, a slow trail of red running from the side of his mouth to his chin. "Get out!" Logan bellowed, his voice hoarse. Massimo didn’t flinch. Leonard stepped in next, surveying the wreckage with narrowed eyes. "What’s all this mess for?" "Can’t you all leave me the hell alone?" Logan shouted again. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides. Leonard started moving forward, a dangerou

BIANCHI MANSIONClick. Click.The sound echoed like a ticking clock inside the cold, cavernous room of the Bianchi Mansion. The sharp flicks came from a silver lighter, worn but polished, dancing flames reflecting in the glass of red wine set before the old man who held it.A haze of cigarette smoke curled upward from his lips, a lazy trail slithering toward the crystal chandelier above. The room was lit dimly, not by the lavish bulbs overhead, but by the mood itself — heavy, grim, tense. The space looked more like a butcher’s prep zone than a negotiation hall. Bloodstains old and new painted the floor and walls like abstract art, a grotesque reminder that diplomacy here often ended in violence.Mr. Bianchi, a man nearing his eighties but built like a war-hardened general, sat at the head of a long, lacquered table. His sharp eyes glinted behind thick brows. Despite the years carved into his face, he looked alive — dangerously so. His fingers held the cigarette like it was an extensio