Lahat ng Kabanata ng Bride of the Mafia cripple : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

The dagger stayed with her.Not in a drawer. Not hidden under her pillow.It was strapped to her thigh.Every day since the dinner incident, Leora wore it like second skin. A reminder that in this house, in this marriage, survival required more than clever words and borrowed power. It required readiness.And Don Allerick?He noticed.“You’ve taken to carrying it,” he remarked three mornings later, his voice low as he buttoned his tailored black shirt.Leora didn’t look up from the book she pretended to read on the couch. “You gave it to me. I assumed you wanted me to use it.”“I do. But not recklessly.”She snapped the book shut. “So teach me. Instead of parading me like a trophy or a trap, teach me to defend myself.”He studied her.Not just her words, but her stance, her tone, her demand.Finally, he gave a slight nod.“Tonight. The south wing gym.”That night, the gym wasn’t empty.Lucien stood by the wall, arms folded. Rosetta sat on the windowsill, peeling an apple with a switchb

The dining hall was unusually quiet the next morning.Servants moved quickly, avoiding eye contact. The usual chatter among guards was gone. Even Rosetta, who usually mocked everything from the cutlery to the curtains, kept her sarcasm to herself.A storm wasn’t coming.It had already arrived.Leora entered the hall dressed in black from head to toe, combat boots, slim-fitting trousers, a silk blouse with hidden armor beneath. Her hair was tied back in a tight braid. She looked like a widow. Or a soldier.She took her seat across from Don Allerick.He was already waiting, calm as ever. A single newspaper folded neatly beside his coffee. The headline screamed about gang violence in the city.Leora didn’t speak.She just passed him a sealed envelope.He opened it. Inside were photographs, surveillance shots from the abandoned building. Emilio’s cousin bleeding out. The briefcase with fake contracts. A list of names scrawled in shaky handwriting.At the top: Franklin Valencia—her father.

The firelight sputtered in the iron sconces lining the stone walls of the mansion’s war room, casting erratic shadows across the grim faces seated around the long oak table. The hour was late—long past midnight—but no one dared speak of sleep. Fatigue hung in the air like smoke, yet the urgency of war eclipsed exhaustion. Every word spoken here tonight could determine the fate of thousands. Every decision was a blade pressed to the throat of their fragile truce with survival.Marcellus’s scarred knuckles slammed the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “We can’t keep waiting for Franklin to make his move,” he growled, veins straining in his neck. “Every day we hesitate, his empire spreads like rot. His men have already taken the eastern corridor. You think he’ll stop there?”Lucien, the youngest of the commanders, leaned forward, hands clasped, voice even but tense. “And what if we strike too early?” he countered. “We expose our hand, burn through resources, and hand him a reason

Leora hadn’t expected to be dropped into the heart of mafia politics with nothing but a borrowed gown and the echo of Rosetta’s warning still ringing in her ears.The South Wing’s ballroom was a palace of deception. It shimmered with too much gold, the kind that whispered of old money and older grudges. Velvet curtains spilled like blood across marble floors, and overhead, a chandelier dripped crystals like icicles sharpened into daggers. The illusion of beauty was suffocating—too perfect, too intentional.She didn’t belong here.Her heels clicked softly as she stepped further inside, the black silk of her dress hugging her too tightly, like a second skin that didn’t fit quite right. The diamond choker at her throat sparkled brilliantly, but she could feel it—like a leash.Leora scanned the room, heart hammering beneath her ribs. Men in tailored suits laughed without humor. Women in couture gowns smiled like snakes, their eyes calculating. Every handshake was a negotiation. Every glan

“The more she sees his world, the more she realizes he’s built a fortress around his heart.”The mansion was too quiet.The kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. Not peaceful. Not serene. Just... tense. Like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for the next explosion.Leora sat alone at the long, gleaming dining table, the scent of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon fruit wafting around her—but her appetite had long since vanished. The chandelier above glittered like frozen starlight, casting fractured patterns across the fine china and silver cutlery. Everything looked perfect.And that’s what unsettled her most.Perfect was a lie in this house.No one spoke. The staff moved like phantoms, barely touching the ground, eyes glued to the floor, their every step rehearsed. Their silence was not from respect—it was from fear. Whatever had transpired last night had rippled through every hallway like a curse.Last night’s political firestorm still lingered in her mind. The press had