All Chapters of The Mafia Boss's Obsession : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Misha's POV Twenty hours later, my jet touched down beneath Colombia’s cloud-heavy skies. Rain threatened but never fell.The air smelled like old blood and burning sage.Nikolai waited at the landing strip, already soaked with Colombian humidity. He’d come ahead to ensure our reach extended where it needed to.“They’re burying the boy. Yuri. Today. You want to wait?” “No.”His mouth tightened. “We’ve locked down the cemetery perimeter. We’ve got five hundred. Silent but ready.”“Good.”He stared at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “You going in loud or quiet?”I didn’t answer. Because I was already walking in rage. I thought she’d run because of our fractured marriage, because I kept her locked behind silence and steel. But it wasn’t just that.It was him. The dead lover.Yuri.She came for him. And that made the burn worse. Deeper.She’s mine.I never wanted to admit it, not to myself, not to her. But I’ll claim her today. Every piece of her. She doesn’t get to stand over an

Misha's POV My heart stuttered, a dark thrill surging through me. Untouched. Unclaimed. Mine to mark, to seal. “Then I’ll be your first,” I said, my voice low, reverent, “and your fucking last.” The thought that her dead boyfriend never had her, never knew her like this, sent a savage joy through me. She was mine, wholly, eternally.I knelt, parting her thighs, and buried my face between them. She was slick, creamy, her taste a drug that made my head spin. I sucked her clit, my tongue relentless, my hands gripping her hips as she gasped for air, her fingers tightening in my hair. She loved it, her moans unfiltered, her body trembling under my mouth. She was mine, and she wasn’t hiding it, not here, not now.I stood, ripping my boxers off, my cock springing free, hard as steel, pulsing with need. Luna’s eyes locked onto it, not with fear but with longing, her lips parting as if she’d waited for this forever. I cupped her breasts, pinching her nipples until she whimpered, her back arc

Luna's POV My stomach dropped. The portraits, generations of Rojas history, my mother’s face among them, her smile the only warmth I’d ever known in this house. Nikolai returned with three massive frames, the canvases gleaming under the courtyard lights, and Misha drew a knife from his belt, the blade glinting as he approached the first portrait, my grandfather, stern and proud. With a single, deliberate slash, he carved through the canvas, the sound of tearing fabric like a scream in the silence. He moved to the next, my father, young and arrogant, slicing through his face with a precision that made my chest tighten. And then my mother, her gentle eyes staring out at me, and I lunged forward, my voice breaking.“Stop!” I shouted, my hands outstretched, my heart in my throat. “Misha, please. don’t touch her. Not her.” Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t care. My mother was the only good thing in this cursed family, the only memory I had that wasn’t tainted by blood and betrayal. I c

Luna's POV “You’ve been quiet,” he said, his voice low, a blade wrapped in silk as he crossed the room, stopping just close enough for me to feel his heat. “Planning another escape?” His eyes flicked to my hands, then back to my face, and I forced myself to keep still, to keep the phone hidden in the folds of my dress. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of catching me.“I’m not running,” I lied, my voice steady despite the fear coiling in my gut. “You’ve made sure there’s nothing left to run to.” The words were sharp, a reminder of what he’d done, burning my room at Columbia, Yuri’s family house, my mother’s portrait. My chest ached at the memory, but I pushed it down, my defiance flaring. I wouldn’t let him see me break. Misha tilted his head, a dark smile playing on his lips, but there was no warmth in it, only menace. “Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to brush my cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. “Because I’d hate to have to hunt you again.” His finger

Luna The blow landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tensed, in the flicker in his eyes. But he didn’t flinch. “I’m not always the villain,” he said, closing the book, his voice level. “Sometimes I just read.”I glanced at the cover, Pushkin, in Russian, and frowned. “Poetry?” I asked, surprised despite myself. “Didn’t think you had that kind of soul.”He gave a half-smile, the kind that made something twist low in my belly. “Stepan loved it. He used to read it to me when we were kids. I didn’t understand it back then. Now…” His voice drifted, and I hated that it made him human.I walked along the shelves, brushing my fingers across the spines. I needed distance, but I was drifting closer instead. When I reached for a book, his hand touched mine.Heat surged.I flinched, but he caught my wrist, gentle, but firm. His thumb traced my pulse. My breath hitched.“Don’t run from me,” he said, eyes dark, voice low. I pulled back, the contact severed like a snapped thread. My shawl slipped to