All Chapters of His Trophy His War: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Checkmate in the DarkRusso lounged in his penthouse, a fortress of glass and steel perched high above Milan’s chaos. The city lights shimmered below, a playground he’d owned for years. He swirled his whiskey, ice clinking, and smirked as he dialled his banker on a sleek burner phone.“Freeze Moretti’s accounts,” he said, voice smooth but sharp. “Lock every euro down.”The banker stammered. “That’s a big move, sir. You sure?”Russo’s eyes narrowed, glinting in the dim light. “Now. Do it.” He hung up, leaning back with a smug grin. Alessandro’s empire would choke by morning—suppliers unpaid, deals dead. Financial warfare, quiet and clean.He wasn’t done. Dante needed a kick. Russo tapped out an SMS: Shipments still moving. Stall them. Or your estate’s mine.The reply came fast: Fine. On it. Russo chuckled. Dante was a desperate pawn, easy to play.Meanwhile, Livia hunched over a desk in Carlo’s cramped office, a financial district hole-in-the-wall stacked with papers and buzzing comput

The Restaurant SummitThe private dining room at Il Rifugio looked like a painting framed in gold. Velvet chairs, polished oak, chandeliers dripping with crystal light. To an outsider, it was elegance. To Livia, it was cover. A fortress disguised as fine dining.She sat at the head of the table, her nails tapping an impatient rhythm on the wood. The ambush at the factory still burned in her chest—Sofia’s mocking smile, Russo’s scrawl across those cursed blueprints. She told herself her hands were steady, but her heart hadn’t slowed since.Alessandro stood by the tall window, staring at Milan’s skyline as if the city itself might give him answers. His broad shoulders filled the glass. He hadn’t said much since she’d told him about the trap, but she didn’t need his words. His silence said enough. Alessandro Moretti silent meant Alessandro Moretti was at war.Their eyes met across the room. His gaze was sharp, unreadable. She gave a small nod, a silent promise: We’ll get through this. To

Dockside ConfrontationThe midnight air at the west pier tasted of salt and diesel. Cargo cranes loomed like skeletons against the moonlight, their arms frozen in time. Shadows stretched long over rusting containers. It was the kind of place where secrets were traded, and bodies could vanish without a ripple.Livia crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, her coat pulled tight, eyes fixed on the stretch of concrete where Russo would arrive. Her phone vibrated once. A message from Clara: In position. Camera rolling.Alessandro crouched beside her, scanning the pier with a pair of binoculars. His jaw was tight, his presence steady. She could feel the heat of him even in the cold night.“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked without looking at her.“I don’t get to be ready,” she murmured. “If Russo’s holding my past over me, tonight I take it back.”Alessandro lowered the binoculars, eyes locking onto hers. “Whatever Sofia throws at you—it doesn’t change us.” His voice was sharp, pr

The Chase“Stop!” Clara’s voice cracked in the roar of gunfire behind them. “Sofia!”Sofia didn’t turn. She vaulted a crate and shoved past a startled deckhand, the glint of the flash drive catching the dock lights.Clara’s sneakers skidded on a wet patch. She barely kept her footing, slamming against the crate. Her recorder tumbled from her pocket, clattering to the boards. She left it; no time. Every instinct screamed that this was the story of her career, the kind that rewrote reputations, the kind that broke empires.Behind her, Alessandro’s furious voice tore through the chaos. “Clara, fall back! That’s an order!”She ignored him. The story was too big. And more than that—Livia’s face haunted her. The flash drive wasn’t just about the mafia’s accounts. It was about her past, about survival written in blood and shame. Clara couldn’t let Sofia weaponize that. Not when she’d seen how much it cost Livia to hold her chin high.Sofia hit the edge of the pier. The boat engine snarled to

The Councilor’s Choice“Madonna,” Bianchi whispered, clutching the glass in both hands. His career, his wealth, his family—everything balanced on a knife’s edge.He poured another shaky glass, sloshing wine across papers already stained. His eyes darted to the message glaring on the screen:Midnight tomorrow. Vote against Moretti’s permits—or the photos go public.Councilor Bianchi’s study smelled of old wood and panic. The curtains were drawn tight, muffling the hum of Milan’s nightlife. A half-empty decanter of Barolo sat on his desk beside a phone that wouldn’t stop buzzing.His throat closed. Russo’s timing was perfect. He couldn’t turn down Moretti without being gutted, but if Russo leaked the dirt, he’d drown anyway.A knock shattered his thoughts. He jumped, nearly spilling wine across his shirt.“Who’s there?”A voice, calm and low. “Friends, Councilor. Let us in.”Bianchi’s stomach dropped. He knew that voice. Moretti’s man.At the safehouse, the air was different—charged, re