All Chapters of The Mafia Kings Plaything : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Selena’s POVThe house was too quiet.Not the kind of quiet that brings peace—but the eerie, polished silence of a place that hides its violence behind velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers.I sat on the edge of a bed that wasn’t mine. The mattress was too soft, the sheets too smooth, the walls too gold. Everything smelled like expensive perfume and roses dying in the vase beside the window.I couldn’t sleep. Not after yesterday.Not after the wedding. My throat was dry. I hadn’t spoken in hours. I didn’t know what to say. Or who to say it to. Giordano hadn’t come to see me since the wedding.I closed my eyes. And it all came back.Flashbacks hit like static behind my eyes—tight veil, heavy dress, sweat trickling down my back as I walked into a room full of wolves pretending to be human. My face was covered, my name erased. I wasn’t Selena anymore. I was Katarina. His bride.Giordano's.The dress had been a perfect fit. Because it wasn’t meant for me.I remembered the tightness in

POV: Valentino At VelmorraAfter Fiorella’s grave, something snapped.Not just in Vittorio.In him.The part of him that had stayed behind. The part that still believed in softness. In light. Gone. Buried under stone.He'd watched Vittorio touch the soil, kneel beside that tomb, whisper her name like a prayer—and something ugly had risen in Valentino’s chest. Not grief. Not love.Rage.I remembered what rage could do.I used to be the big brother.Born first. Meant to lead. Meant to protect.But after Fiorella’s death? I burned.I’d burned half of Naples with it once.I’d gone dark after Fiorella. Fully. No chains. No rules. Just knives and blood. I killed for no reason. Cut people for blinking wrong. I broke a man’s skull with a wrench just for saying her name out loud. I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just killed and kept killing until.At one point, even Vittorio looked at me like a problem he couldn’t fix.So I left.Correction—Vittorio made him leave. Forced him to disappear.Vi

Katarina's POV At VelmorraI didn't know breakfast could be erotic. Until now.The table looked like it belonged in a palace built for gods. Gold trim. Velvet chairs. Porcelain plates that probably cost more than my soul. And on those plates? Sin.Shrimps, curled and steaming, drenched in garlic and lemon butter. Caviar, tiny black beads glistening like obsidian. Strawberries that looked like they bled juice. Soft cheeses, melting slowly on toasted brioche. Chocolate pastries with powdered sugar dusted like cocaine on crystal.The chef stood at the head of the table like he was about to deliver a sermon. Mid-forties. Thin. French. His white jacket was buttoned up too tight, and the sweat on his forehead glistened under the overhead chandelier.His hands trembled as he held a long silver fork. His accent rolled off his tongue like silk, but his voice cracked on the hard sounds.“Poêlées de crevettes sauvages dans une réduction de vin blanc,” he said, eyes darting toward Vittorio. “Ser

Vittorio’s POV At The Auction UndergroundTell me you have it.”Ghost’s voice crackled through the phone. “Yeah. We got the relic.”“And?”“And we’ve got a big fucking problem.”I stepped away from the noise inside, the heavy music and cigar smoke echoing through the underground. The hallway outside was cooler, quieter.“What kind of problem?” I asked, jaw tight.“Interpol flagged the shipment. They’ve got heat on the docks in Naples. Too many eyes.”“You told me you handled customs.”“I did handle it,” he snapped. “But somebody leaked. Probably one of those auction bastards. Or a rat in Anwar’s circle.”I exhaled hard through my nose. “Put Anwar on the phone.”Few seconds. Click.A trembling voice answered. “Yes, Mister De Luca—”“You listen to me,” I said, low and sharp. “You fuck this up, you won’t need to worry about Interpol. You’ll need to worry about your spine.”“I—I will fix it. Please.”“Two hours. That’s all you’ve got. Get Ghost the clearance, or you lose your tongue.”I

Katarina’s POV: Back at Velmorra "You're staring again," I muttered.Vittorio didn’t answer.Because, of course, he was.We stepped through the threshold into madness. And I do mean madness.It wasn’t just an orgy—it was art. Chaos wrapped in silk and sweat. Velvet curtains. Red haze. Bodies writhing to slow music that pulsed like sex. Skin on skin, hips grinding, tongues everywhere. The air smelled like jasmine and sin, and moaned like it had a pulse of its own.This wasn’t just fucking. This was worship.Women glided past like goddess clones. Legs too long, asses too high, tits too perfect. They moved like they knew they were being watched. Like they wanted it.One woman—tall, dark, jaw like royalty—was riding a man on the marble kitchen island. She didn’t blink when we passed. She just threw her head back and moaned.Another couple was bent over the piano. Literally. Her heels were digging into the man’s back while he pounded into her, notes crashing out with each thrust.“What t