All Chapters of His Baby My Burden: The Mafia Rider's Claim: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

We left the cabin a few hours ago, and I still can't shake the image of her trembling in my arms. Giuli's hair had smelled like pine and smoke when I held her through the night. There was nothing between us but the silence of the woods and the weight of our pasts clawing at our throats.My brothers came for us at first light, and picked us up at the cabin to make sure we weren’t followed. Diavlo Scuri never let their own get taken without a war. As their founding father, I made sure they took those words in their heart like an oath.But this... this was something else. This was her. The woman I'd bled for, burned for, buried half my soul for. They could be chasing me or Giuli's family who want me dead but I don't give a fuck because I will chase them away.She sat at the backside of my motorbike, her arms wrapped tight around my waist, cheek pressed to my back as we rode. My bike cut through the morning wind, but my mind was a storm. She'd asked me where we were going.I couldn’t tell

My body shut down eventually, somewhere between rage and despair, but my mind… it wouldn’t stop. Not even for a second. I replayed every word Giuli had said, or hadn’t said, over and over again. Her eyes were blank and distant like I was just another face in the fucking hallway. That image was carved into the back of my skull. And it wouldn't fade. She looked at me like she despises me a lot and wishes that I never even existed at all. What could possibly be worst than seeing your girl be like that? By sunrise, I was back on my bike. The engine roared like the scream stuck in my chest. I didn’t know where I was going, not really. I just rode because it's the only thing keeping me awake now. My hands were stiff from the split knuckles, but I didn’t feel the pain anymore. It was nothing compared to the hell inside me. Somewhere around town, I pulled up behind an abandoned warehouse and killed the engine. The silence fell too heavy. I lit a smoke with shaking hands and leaned ag

The morning light burned through the cracks of the boarded-up windows, but I didn’t move. The sun didn’t rise for me anymore not when she couldn’t remember my name. Sleep had become a forgotten ritual. In its place were cold showers, black coffee, and long, punishing silences. Each morning now followed a strict routine, not for survival, but for vengeance. I wasn’t just going to wait for her memories to return—I was going to dig out the truth with my bare hands and bleed whoever buried it. I sat at the edge of the mattress in the safehouse, staring at the burn mark on the wooden floor we made that one winter night when the heater broke and she tried to light a fire using cheap candles and too much wine. She laughed so hard when the flame shot up and nearly took her eyebrows off. She was always reckless like that. Wild and mine. My knuckles were still swollen from the fight two days ago, bones purple and cracked under old scabs. It hurt to make a fist, but I did anyway. Pain kept me

I tried to focus by noticing how the room looked like it was not torn into pieces. There were fresh rose petals scattered around. And candles everywhere. "Or is my voice distracting you?" He asked as he teasingly pulls down the zipper of my dress. His fingers brushed the zipper of what I was wearing, a touch so light it felt more like a whisper against my spine. A ripple shot through me half fear and half… something else. Something warmer like a forming arousal. I should’ve stepped away. I should’ve pulled his hand off me and told him to stop. But I didn’t. I just stood there. Frozen. My breath hitched as the zipper moved another inch lower, the sound impossibly loud in the silence between us. “Don’t,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice. He paused. But he didn’t let go. “You used to say that.” he murmured, his lips so close to my ear I felt the shape of every word. “Only to beg me to keep going a few seconds later.” I blinked hard. “I never—” He gently slid t

I took a slow sip of water. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.” “Not flattery,” he said with a slight laugh. “Observation.” The conversation floated on like that for a while—careful, measured. My father jumped in occasionally to brag about our operation, to toss in some outdated wisdom about leadership and family legacies. It was exhausting. I felt like a marionette with strings attached to my mouth, my dress, my every blink. Matteo’s name never came up. Thank God. Still, every time Emanuele looked at me, I felt that familiar coil of nausea twist in my gut. He wasn’t aggressive or rude. He wasn’t anything that could be openly critiqued. He was perfect. And that made it worse. Eventually, the conversation drifted toward more personal matters. I could feel the shift in the room when my father turned to me and asked, almost too casually, “So where exactly were you this morning, Giuli?” Here it was. I looked straight at him. “I already said. I went for a walk. Needed space.”