All Chapters of His Trophy His War: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Cyber Counterstrike Carlo's laptop screamed at 4 AM.Livia bolted upright in bed, Alessandro's arm sliding off her waist as he reached for his gun."Easy." She caught his wrist. "It's Carlo."They found him in the main room, hunched over three laptops, energy drink cans scattered like shell casings. His eyes were bloodshot behind smudged glasses."It's happening," he said. "The attack. It's happening now."Alessandro crossed the room in three strides. "I thought we had forty-eight hours.""So did I." Carlo's fingers flew across the keyboard. "But the hacker just launched early. He's already inside Alessandro's shipping network. Another ten minutes and he'll lock everything—manifests, payments, routes. You'll be paralyzed."Livia leaned over his shoulder, watching code scroll past. "Can you stop it?""I don't know." Sweat beaded on Carlo's forehead. "He's good. Really good. I'm trying to wall off the banking systems, but if he pivots—""Then don't let him pivot." Alessandro's voice wa

Territorial Clash The docks warehouse stank of fish and diesel. Alessandro stood in the centre, arms crossed, watching two rival crews size each other up.On his left—his own men. Marco stood closest, jaw tight. Sergio leaned against a shipping container, hand resting on his holster.On his right—the Bellini family. Three men in expensive suits, led by a silver-haired bull named Luca Bellini. His nephew Franco flanked him, young and eager."This is neutral ground," Alessandro said. "We talk first."Luca smiled without warmth. "I remember when you shot first and never bothered talking.""Times change.""So I've noticed." Luca's eyes swept the warehouse. "Word is you've been busy. Russo's bases raided, his money gone. That's bold work.""Not my concern what happens to Russo.""Isn't it?" Luca stepped closer. "Those docks you control? The ones Russo used to move product? My family wants them."Alessandro's expression didn't shift. "They're not for sale.""Everything's for sale." Franco'

Money Laundering HustleCarlo's operation ran like clockwork.The restaurant—Il Giardino—sat tucked in Milan's financial district, all white tablecloths and crystal stemware. Tourists packed the tables at lunch, businessmen at dinner. Nobody noticed the back office where Carlo sat hunched over his laptop, routing dirty money through shell corporations faster than the kitchen could plate risotto.Livia leaned against the doorframe, watching numbers scroll across the screen. "How much?""Two hundred grand so far." Carlo didn't look up, fingers flying. "Another three hundred by midnight if the transfers clear.""And they will?""They always do." He pushed his glasses up. "Beauty of multiple shell corps—by the time anyone traces the money, it's bounced through six countries and looks clean as Sunday mass."Alessandro appeared behind Livia, his hand settling on her lower back. The touch was light but possessive, sending heat through her despite the bandage still wrapped around her shoulder

The Villa ApproachThe drive to Lake Como took three hours. Alessandro pushed the car hard, Milan's skyline shrinking in the rear-view until only mountains and dark water remained.Livia sat in the passenger seat, studying satellite images on her phone. The villa sprawled across the screen—high walls, private dock, guards visible even from orbit. Russo's fortress."Six guards outside," she said. "Maybe more inside. Security cameras on every corner. Motion sensors along the perimeter.""We've handled worse." Alessandro's hands were steady on the wheel."Have we?" She glanced at him. "This isn't a warehouse or a base. This is where Russo lives. Where he'll make his stand.""Good. I'm tired of chasing him."In the backseat, Sergio cleaned his gun for the third time. Marco sat beside him, silent, jaw tight. They'd brought minimal crew—four total. Any more and they'd lose the element of surprise."Clara's exposé dropped an hour ago," Sergio said, checking his phone. "Lieutenant Bianchi's a

The Defector's DealClara's apartment still smelled like stale coffee and anxiety. She sat at her tiny kitchen table, laptop open, staring at the screen until her eyes burned. Rossi's press conference played on mute—his smug face, his carefully rehearsed answers, his complete omission of how he'd actually caught Russo.Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.I have information. Meet me. Parco Sempione. One hour. Alone. —A friendShe stared at it. Every instinct screamed trap. After Vito, after Paolo, after everything—meeting anonymous contacts was suicide.But if this "friend" had intel on Russo's remaining network, on who was helping him from outside...She grabbed her coat.The park was quiet at noon. Joggers circled the paths, mothers pushed strollers, old men fed pigeons. Normal. Safe.Clara found a bench near the fountain, scanning faces. Her recorder sat heavy in her pocket, already running.A woman approached. Fifties, well-dressed, nervous eyes. She sat without asking, hands folded