All Chapters of Twisted vows : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Alessia’s POV As soon as my gaze met Arturo’s, everything else faded away. He blinked, recovering way too quickly and put on that usual arrogant mask of his. "You’re early," he said, like he was surprised to see me. I tilted my head, giving him a playful look. "You didn’t expect me at all, did you?" "I figured you were still pouting in Florence," he shot back, sipping his wine as if we were just casually chatting over breakfast. I flashed a sweet smile. "You thought wrong." Guests floated by like a hint of perfume—senators, CEOs, aristocrats, even arms dealers dressed to the nines. The music built up. Rome’s devils sure knew how to dress. Arturo touched my arm, a little firm. "Whatever you’re planning, don’t." I leaned in, almost brushing my cheek against his. "Oh, it’s already started." Matteo glided through the crowd, quiet as a wisp of smoke. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, hair slicked back, his eyes scanning the room. Every few moments, he’d tap his phone—checking the

Alessia’s POVThe morning after the gala felt weirdly calm. Too calm, if you ask me. No reporters were camped outside. No sirens wailing. No crowds milling around. Just this quiet hum, like the world was pretending nothing had happened, even after it all played out in front of the cameras.But hey, that’s Rome for you. If you’re not bleeding out in the streets, you’re still part of the show.I stood on the balcony of the safehouse, wrapped up in a robe, just staring at the city I had set ablaze. Below me, life went on—tourists snapping pictures, cars honking, a guy selling espresso on the corner. It was like the world didn’t just watch some monsters bleed gold and guilt all over the marble.Nikolai joined me, coffee in hand. He didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there beside me, and in that silence, we both understood what was coming next: this was just the quiet before another storm.The leaks had gone viral, and within hours, De Luca Enterprises stock took a nosedive. Warrants w

Alessia’s POVDriving out of Marrakesh felt like a blur. I was in the backseat, with Luca tucked under a blanket next to me, his small body shaking. Since we left the villa, he hadn’t said a word—not when Nikolai crashed through the gate or when the gunshots echoed behind us. Not even when I tried to reassure him, saying, "You're safe now."But we weren’t really safe.As dawn broke, we made it into the Atlas foothills and reached a checkpoint. An old friend of Nikolai’s was there—a guy who didn’t have a name, just scars. He handed us some papers, fuel, and kept quiet.By nightfall, we found ourselves in Casablanca. Safe for the moment, hidden in a place Nikolai promised even ghosts couldn’t find.Finally, Luca drifted off to sleep on my lap. I watched him breathe, slow and shaky, like he wasn’t sure even that was okay. I brushed his hair back and whispered words Elena once said to me when I was little:“You are not what they did to you.”“You are who you choose to become.”And I meant

Alessia’s POVThe key? It was old. Like, really old. Made of iron and pretty scratched up. Looked like something out of a forgotten chapel. But it wasn’t the magical kind you hear about in fairy tales. This was the kind of key you bled for.Elena’s note had one more thing under that warning:“Beneath the red church. The box is still there. If they haven’t found it.”We traced it all the way to a place outside Istanbul. A crumbling old Byzantine chapel, lost to time and tourists. The locals called it Kırmızı Işık Kilisesi—the Red Light Church.There was a legend about a priest who sold indulgences for gold and whispered secrets. Elena had circled this chapel in some old notebook Matteo found during a raid in Rome, but we never knew why. Until now.The three of us arrived in thick fog. Matteo stayed behind with Luca in the safehouse. It wasn’t safe to bring him anymore. Every day we spent in Turkey, we got closer to Konstantin’s blade. Nikolai and I went into the chapel alone.The roof

Alessia’s POVThe war wasn’t just on the horizon.It was here.And if my mom wanted to act like she was in charge, then I was ready to unleash a storm that would wash away her power.Our counterattack kicked off at dawn.Matteo had spent the night figuring out her networks—those charity fronts, shady offshore accounts, and all that nonsense. They were scattered across Europe like breadcrumbs meant for the blind.She wasn’t just hanging on anymore.She was plotting a comeback.“She’s safeguarding her exits,” Nikolai observed. “Getting ready for a crash.”“No,” I replied. “She’s gearing up to bounce back.”We couldn’t let that fly.So we targeted her weak spot.The old money.First stop: Geneva.Matteo and I arrived with fake IDs.Our contact, a Ukrainian tech whiz named Kasia, had cracked into one of Isabella’s secure fund transfers and traced it to a vault under a heritage foundation.When we got to the vault, we were dressed in suits and fake smiles, pretending to be investors.Kasia