Todos los capítulos de Shadows of the Vow: Capítulo 221 - Capítulo 230

Antonioni’s POV  I was in my private lounge, seated, the mailer's letter in my hands, when I saw Diego’s neat, familiar handwriting. The mailer had said I had mail. I was curious because I barely get any mail. Especially, obecauseone can now easily send messages anytime, just with the communication devices. In his letter, Diego confessed he couldn’t bring himself to say it to me directly. That he was leaving Shadows to form his own gang. I read on. He admitted he didn’t know how I would react, that’s why he couldn’t say it face-to-face. That he felt there was something more to his purpose than serving forever, which is why he was seceding. Then, the part that made me smirk despite myself: he begged that we could still remain in touch, that we could be great business partners. The boy had been disrespectful recently…and now he comes with this? This is the letter in fu

Antonioni’s POV   We left before sunrise. No noise. No distractions. Just able-bodied men from the Marina Park. Men who understood the urgency and what was at stake. I checked my weapon, sliding it into place. “Everyone geared?” I asked. “Fully armed,” Bukky replied. “One-fifty men. All armored.” “Good.” Matteo stepped forward. “We hit fast. No delays. I don't think they're expecting us.” I nodded once. “No delays. I don't think so either.” From the side, Milo adjusted his vest. “After this… I’ll finally settle things properly,” he said. I glanced at him briefly. “With Elira?” He smiled. Not wide. Just enough. “Yeah.” I held his gaze for a second. “Then don’t die,” I said, honestly wondering how a man would be thinking about a woman in the face of war.

Nobody's POV  And then…Antonioni ended him with one hit. “Son of a bitch!” Just like that. Lorenzo fell still and finally closed his eyelids. As if to be sure he'd died well, Antonioni felt his hands tighten around Lorenzo’s neck. Enough. No more words. No more mercy. He stood, staggering backward and wiping off Lorenzo's blood on his clothes. Lorenzo struggled for a while and then… gave up the ghost. His blood pooling, his eyes wide in disbelief. The Naples villa, once Lorenzo’s domain, was silent but for Antonioni’s fast breathing and the scattered moans of the fallen. **** Around them, the rest of Lorenzo's men have already been killed. Meanwhile, the rest of Antonioni’s men were down…some on their knees, some barely standing, breathing hard. It was close. Too close. “Help them up…,” he ordered, pantin

Antonioni’s POVWe handled Nora without delay.Not me. I had too much to rebuild, so I sent Bukky. He showed her the CCTV footage of the ballet incident, the moment she killed the boy, then asked her one question: “Exile to Asia… or the police for murder?” He said her eyes were red, like someone already lost. Anyways, she chose exile. Quietly. No resistance. And just like that… Nora was gone.About me, I hadn’t eaten for six, almost seven days. It didn’t matter. There was work. There were responsibilities. People who were still here, people who needed me… and those who weren’t.The Park was breathing again, but unevenly. Broken. Alive, yes…but alive because someone had to make sure it stayed that way. I moved from station to station, handing out roles, checking lists, and assigning responsibilities.Some of the men were shaky. Some had been caught off-guard by what had happened. Some were angry, some were lost. I had no time for either weakness or pity. Not now. Not when they were co

Antonioni’s POVThe moment they stepped inside my study, something changed. I didn’t see it at first, but I felt it. The air. It changed. It became sharp and wrong.My fingers stilled over the paper in front of me. And then… I looked up. “Who…?”The word didn’t even finish forming.Because the man standing in front of me…No. That wasn’t possible.My chest tightened instantly, as something had reached inside and gripped my lungs. My mind tried to catch up, to make sense of what my eyes were seeing, but it refused.It was…my father—the one Patty Mama told me he died when I was just two years old. He stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he knew one wrong step would shatter whatever fragile reality was holding this moment together.“Antonioni…” he said.My name. From his mouth. This was undeniably him. The face in the pictures.“I… It’s me. Your father. I’ve come back. I’ve come to make it right.”My pen slipped from my fingers. I didn’t feel it fall. My body locked. Completely.