Semua Bab Twisted vows : Bab 91 - Bab 100

Alessia’s POV The silence that hung in the villa after Arturo left felt heavy, almost suffocating. I sat on my bed, hands trembling against my knees as I replayed the way his shadow had engulfed the room. His words echoed in my mind—twisted and poisonous, but sharp enough to cut. Nikolai was pacing by the door, gun in hand but lowered now, his jaw clenched tight with anger. The tension in the air between us was electric, full of unspoken thoughts. I finally broke the quiet. “He was here. In my room. Do you get what that means?” Nikolai stopped in his tracks, locking eyes with me. “It means he wanted you to know that nowhere is safe. That’s his game. He gets into your head first, then he goes for the kill.” I took uneven breaths, my chest rising and falling. “And he almost got me. If you hadn’t shown up when you did—” I trailed off, shivering at the thought. “You’re not alone,” he said firmly. “Not anymore. He won’t touch you as long as I’m here.” There was something stirring w

Alessia’s POV By the second morning, my body was protesting fiercely. Every muscle was sore, my arms felt heavy, and each step I took felt like a struggle as I made my way back to the courtyard. But I showed up anyway. I didn't have a choice anymore. Nikolai was already there, his jacket tossed aside and sleeves rolled up. He looked like a statue in the morning light—tough and unyielding. He glanced over at me, taking note of my stiff walk and the slight grimace I tried to hide. “You’re sore,” he stated plainly. I gritted my teeth. “I’m alive. That’s what matters.” For a brief moment, I saw something soften in his expression before he masked it with a smirk. “We’ll see how alive you feel in an hour.” I groaned internally. “You get a kick out of torturing me, don’t you?” “Only when it makes you stronger.” His words held a weight I couldn’t shake off. He was serious. Deep down, I recognized he was right. He started us off with stretches, pushing me through movements that made

Alessia’s POV Something about the city felt off. Even the air seemed heavy, as if the streets were watching me closely. I strolled alongside Matteo through the crowded market square, my hood pulled low, stealing glances at every unfamiliar face. There were too many men lounging around the alleys and too many strangers lingering by the stalls with empty hands. Arturo’s influence was growing, creeping in like a shadow. “He’s gaining momentum,” Matteo murmured beside me, his voice barely cutting through the noise of the vendors. “Half of these guys don’t even belong here. Spies, enforcers, watchers. Arturo wants us cornered.” “I see that,” I replied quietly, gripping my basket of bread a little tighter. “But if we hide, we’re just giving him what he wants—fear.” Matteo shot me a sideways glance, a mix of admiration and worry on his face. “You’re sounding more like Nikolai every day.” That idea stirred something inside me—something I wasn’t ready to confront. Back at the s

Arturo’s POV Florence was like a delicate flower, willing to bloom under the right conditions. I had learned a long time ago that true power isn’t grabbed with brute force—it's cultivated, nurtured, and masked as a gift until the people plead for you to take command. From my balcony, I watched the city buzz with fresh energy. Merchants were praising ‘stability,’ while priests recited my decrees as if they were sacred texts. My name, once spoken in whispers of fear, now echoed with gratitude. Just as I planned. Inside my chamber, my most trusted advisors were gathered, papers strewn across the table, each marked with the council’s seal. Decrees, proclamations, endorsements—everything was meticulously arranged. “They're calling you a savior now,” one of them remarked, a sly smile creeping onto his face. I adjusted the cuffs of my sharp coat. “Of course they should. Disorder flourishes without a firm hand. I provide order.” Another advisor cleared his throat. “But there are still

Nikolai’s POV The printing press was way louder than I’d anticipated. Each thud of its iron frame sent vibrations through the floor, thumping in my chest like a war drum. I stood guard in the dim basement, where every shadow felt like a threat and every creak from above reminded me of the danger we were courting. Alessia was at the table nearby, her sleeves rolled up and ink smudged across her fingers. Her eyes were intense as she scanned each freshly printed page. Words of defiance and truth spilled out in bold black ink on parchment that had been blank just hours earlier. It was dangerous, reckless even. But it was brilliant. “Make sure this line is bold,” she said to Matteo, who was feeding the press with care. “‘Arturo De Luca builds his throne upon the bones of Florence’s children.’ The people need to see it, to feel it.” Her voice didn’t waver. Gone was the woman weighed down by grief and secrets; she had transformed into fire itself, forged by pain into something sharper,