Semua Bab His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim: Bab 161 - Bab 166

The light poured through the villa’s arched windows, soft and golden, touching everything it met — from the ivory drapes to the small porcelain cup in my hands. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and coffee. It was calm, almost perfect — the kind of morning that used to mean peace. But lately, peace felt too quiet. Almost deceptive. Sofia’s laughter echoed faintly from the garden where Signora Rossa sat with her. I could see them through the window — Sofia in her pale yellow dress, her cheeks rosier than ever since her recovery. She was holding a small paintbrush, giggling as she showed her drawing to the woman who had cared for her since birth. Rossa smiled, that same motherly smile I used to find comforting. She brushed Sofia’s hair back gently, said something that made my daughter laugh again, and for a moment… everything looked normal. “Vedi? She’s getting stronger,” I murmured, half to myself, half to the man standing behind me. Matteo didn’t answer immediately. He was leani

Giuli doesn’t speak to me yet. She’s calm—too calm. The kind of silence that screams louder than shouting.Sofia sits between us, her small hands holding a spoonful of porridge, humming a tune Rossa taught her.And Rossa, as always, moves through the kitchen with grace. Smiling. Warm. Effortlessly blending into the routine like she’s always belonged here.But I can feel her eyes flick to me every few seconds.Just brief enough to seem natural, just sharp enough to make my skin crawl.When Sofia laughs, Rossa joins in, soft and motherly. I almost believe it again.Almost.By noon, I’m already out of the villa. The drive to the docks is long, but it’s what I need—space, noise, distance.Giuli stayed behind with Sofia. She told me to “let it go,” but I can’t. Not when everything inside me screams that something’s off.I park near the old warehouse where Enzo works his operations—our safehouse for things that shouldn’t exist on paper.The sea wind hits hard, bringing the smell of rust and

I don’t go back to the bedroom. I can’t.I sit in the dark of the study, the tablet glowing like a radioactive coal in my hand. My thumb hovers over the screen, scrolling through the "drawing" app. On the surface, it’s all digital finger-paints—smudged rainbows and lopsided houses. But I’m looking at the cache files. I’m looking at the background data.Hidden behind a file labeled *‘Sunflowers.jpg’* is a burst of outbound packets. Encrypted. Tier-one military grade.Sofia is five. She knows how to ask for more juice and how to hide her vegetables under the rim of her plate. She doesn't know how to bounce a signal off a ghost satellite in the North Atlantic.I hear a soft creak in the hallway.I slide the tablet under a stack of papers and pull my Beretta from the desk drawer in one fluid motion, keeping it below the line of the mahogany.It’s Rossa.She’s wearing her dressing gown, carrying a warm glass of milk. She stops in the doorway, her eyes landing on me, then shifting to the de