All Chapters of Shadows of the Vow: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Antonioni's POV I didn’t hear about Martinez when it happened.That was the first insult.I was in Malta—serving detention terms, same day, watching Annabelle carry herself with that quiet grace of hers in Cambodia, planning, praying for my release, measuring time in controlled breaths and legal language.And while I was gone, someone decided my absence meant weakness. They assumed my silence was surrender. That distance and restraint dulled my reach. That confinement stripped me of authority.Someone decided my house was exposed.And they decided my people could be touched.What they didn’t understand, what they never understand, is that I don’t stop ruling because I’m not present. I don’t stop protecting because I’m restrained. And I don’t forgive men who mistake patience for permission.Martinez was collateral in a message meant for me.I found out late. Too late. Not from an official report. Not from Annabelle. Not from Milo. Not from Diego. Not even from Bukky.From fragments and

Antonioni’s POVI didn’t wait for permission.The moment Kemal stepped aside, I moved.They were being held by Kemal's men in a secured hangar on the outskirts, temporary, unofficial, and quiet. The kind of place meant for questions that weren’t supposed to exist on paper, yet served justice. The government liked pretending it didn’t have rooms like this. I’d built empires inside worse.Bukky walked slightly ahead of me. Milo to my right. Diego behind, silent and lethal. He was already cataloguing every exit, every shadow, every man foolish enough to think restraint applied to me tonight.Annabelle stayed back. Not because I told her to. But because she knew me well enough to understand that what was about to happen belonged to a darker geography of my soul—one she didn’t need to step into unless I called her name.The door opened.Three men.Bruised. Restrained. Breathing too fast for men who thought they understood violence.I closed the door myself. The sound echoed.“Who gave the

Antonioni's POV   Night found us the way it always did when we used to be together before Malta separated us…honest. The Marina Park was quiet in that peculiar way that only islands manage after midnight. The sea breathed in slow, patient waves, like it knew something I didn’t. Or maybe it knew everything and was waiting for me to catch up. I returned to the Dome long after Kemal’s men cleared the hangar. Long after the blood had been washed from my hands but not from my memory. The lights were low when I stepped inside. Annabelle was awake. She stood barefoot by the balcony doors of the room we shared, wearing one of my shirts, nothing else under. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like she hadn’t bothered to tame it because she wanted me to see her exactly as she was. Unarmored.

Antonioni’s POVBy mid-afternoon, the call came. Sokha Vireakk would arrive at a secure location within the hour. Kemal had insisted on coordinating logistics, but I made it clear. No unnecessary interference. This meeting was mine.I stood in the hangar, arms folded, watching the sunlight slice through the half-opened windows. Bukky, Diego, and Milo flanked me like shadows made flesh, alert but patient. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. The air was already taut with expectation.When Sokha’s convoy arrived, I noted every detail—the tinted windows, the quiet discipline of his men, the subtle signals exchanged. Men like him didn’t travel lightly, and he was no ordinary operator.The doors opened, and he stepped out. Tall, impeccably composed, his gaze briefly sweeping through the hangar before landing on me. He stopped, noting my posture, the silent assembly of men around me. Showed respect, but not fear. That was correct.I moved forward. My steps, measured and controlled. Bukky, Dieg

Antonioni’s POV  Patty Mama was already seated when I entered. She didn’t raise her voice when she spoke to me. That was how I knew she was angry. She didn't need to, I already understood her like that, because that's how I act too when I'm angry. Like mother, like son. She didn’t look at me immediately. Her back was straight, hands folded in her lap, chin lifted in that familiar way she’s used to whenever she was offended and determined to be seen as such. “So,” she said at last, eyes still forward, “you disappear, you return, and you still don’t come to see your mother.” I closed the door behind me quietly. “I was detained,” I said. “Not dead.” She turned then, sharp. “And yet you didn’t write. Not one letter. Not one message. You let