Semua Bab His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim: Bab 151 - Bab 160

By dawn, the villa’s halls reeked of smoke and tension. Word of the ambush had traveled faster than bullets, and the Bianchi council had already convened.I walked into the dining hall—not the warm place it was for family meals, but the cold chamber it became when turned into a boardroom. The long table was lined with uncles, cousins, and advisors, every pair of eyes sharp and waiting.They didn’t stand. They didn’t greet me. They watched like judges awaiting the condemned.Matteo shadowed me, a step behind, his presence a silent warning. He leaned against the wall near the doorway, arms crossed, gaze predatory. If anyone reached for me, he’d break them without hesitation.I took the head chair. My father’s chair. Leather creaked under me, the weight of legacy pressing down like a blade across my shoulders.Zio Romano cleared his throat first, his silver hair immaculate, his eyes cold. “So. The Vitales greet you with open arms, and in return, they receive bullets. Now the streets whis

The news of Lorenzo’s death spread faster than I expected. By sunrise, whispers echoed through Palermo—Giulianna Bianchi had executed her own blood at the council table. Some called me ruthless. Others called me dangerous. Both were true. But danger had a way of attracting enemies. By the second day, the Vitales made their move. It wasn’t subtle. Their message never was. The first explosion tore through one of our warehouses near the port, flames climbing into the sky. By the time Matteo and I arrived, the fire had eaten everything inside—equipment, shipments, even men who hadn’t escaped in time. Their screams haunted the smoke. Matteo gripped my arm as we stood back, fire reflecting in his eyes. “They’re not testing you anymore,” he muttered. “They’re declaring war.” I clenched my jaw, swallowing the anger that clawed its way up my throat. “Good,” I said. “Let them see how war feels when it’s me they’ve chosen to fight.” That night, I called the council again. But this

The villa was still breathing when the first messages arrived—video clips, forwarded by a dozen anonymous accounts, each one stitched together like a lie with better lighting. Footage of men in Bianchi colors near Francesco’s villa, shadows that could be read any way the watcher wanted. A voiceover, edited to sound like a confession. A headline "Bianchi Murdered Vitale: Proof of Brutality". It spread like oil. I watched it once, twice, then slammed my fist into the desk until the wood stung. It was clean, professional—timed to muddy the water before my counters could surface. Whoever cut this knew how the world watched: quick outrage, slower facts. Matteo was already moving. He ripped open the shutter to the study, the morning light coming in like an accusation. “Leak came from three accounts,” he said, voice flat. “All routed through the same mirror server in Naples. It’s not just a smear—someone’s running a campaign.” “Then we drown it out,” I said. “Not with words. With fact.”

His grip on my wrists tightened, rough but trembling. The heat of his skin burned into mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might crush me—not with his hands, but with the weight of everything he refused to say. “Let go,” I hissed, trying to yank free. “No,” Matteo growled, his voice breaking on the single syllable. His eyes were wild, the kind of wild that came from too many nights without sleep, too many years of blood on his hands. “If I let go, Giuli, maybe I lose you. Maybe you run. Maybe you decide one morning that the fight is enough, that I’m enough, and then you’ll be gone.” I froze, my anger stuttering against the rawness in his voice. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m here, Matteo. I’ve been here every goddamn day.” He laughed, harsh and hollow. “No. You’ve been here for them. For this family, for this empire, for ghosts of men who built their thrones out of bones. And I…” His chest heaved, his words spilling like poison he’d been swallowing too long. “I’m

The hospital doesn’t smell like leather and smoke, like power and threats. It smells like antiseptic and warm linen, the kind of place where the world narrows to the sound of a heartbeat monitor and the small breaths of someone you can’t afford to lose.Sofia’s room is on the top floor, away from the noise of the city. Matteo holds the door open for me, his hand lingering on my lower back as if he knows I need anchoring before I step inside.She’s sitting up in bed, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, skin still pale but brighter than the last time I saw her. The blanket is pulled up to her chest, and a stuffed bear—too childish for her age, but precious because Matteo bought it during one of his late-night visits—sits tucked under her arm.“Daddy!” Her voice lifts, small but full of light.Matteo crosses the room in three long strides. For all the power he commands in the streets, it’s here—kneeling beside her bed, kissing her forehead—that he looks undone. “Principessa,” he mu