Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Mafia Stepbrothers Want Me?: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

The night swallowed us whole as we stumbled from the warehouse.The mist off the docks wrapped itself around us, heavy with the tang of salt and iron. Umbra’s blood was still on my hands—slick on my skin, sticky beneath my nails. My ears rang with gunfire that wasn’t there anymore, ghosts of bullets that had missed me by inches.Nico leaned against me, his weight dragging but steady. His breath was harsh, uneven, his shirt torn and soaked red where someone’s blade had kissed too deep. Every step was a battle. Every heartbeat reminded me he was alive.Alive.Matteo emerged from the shadows ahead, one hand pressed hard to his side where blood seeped through his coat. His rifle was slung across his back, but his eyes were sharp, sweeping the alleys, the rooftops, the river’s edge.“They’ll regroup,” he said, voice rough. “Umbra’s men don’t scatter for long.”I tightened my grip on Nico’s arm, forcing us both to keep moving. “Then we don’t give them the chance.”Matteo’s gaze flicked to m

SerenaThe fourth knock rattled the warped door.“Serena.”Every nerve in my body stilled. That voice didn’t belong here. It wasn’t Umbra, wasn’t one of his faceless soldiers. No, this voice cut differently—low, familiar, threaded with a history I didn’t share but could feel in the tension it ripped from the boys.Nico’s face went pale, the blood drained from him so fast I thought he’d pass out. Matteo froze like a wolf sighting prey. Even Luca, who always masked nerves with a smile, dropped his grin. His eyes sharpened, hard as glass.The silence after the name felt heavier than the knock itself.“Who is it?” I asked, my voice too soft, too fragile in the stale air.The voice outside answered without hesitation. “It’s Marco.”I didn’t know the name, but the way the boys reacted told me enough.Nico’s wounded body straightened, his hand closing tighter around his gun until his knuckles whitened. Matteo’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass. Luca swore under his breath, something bitt

Serena:The moment Marco’s boots hit the floor, the room shrank to the width of our pulse. Every shadow seemed to lean toward us, heavy and knowing. Nico didn’t lower his gun—he never did—but the tremor in his fingers said more than words could. Matteo muttered a string of curses I didn’t fully hear, and Luca’s jaw was a rigid line, knuckles white against the window frame.I forced myself to breathe, to anchor to something other than fear. My gun stayed trained on Marco, but my eyes flicked to the blinds. The street beyond was a study in tension: the van, black as oil, its engine a soft growl; the figure on the corner, lean and patient; the city itself holding its breath.“Move fast,” Marco whispered, as though speaking louder would snap the thin thread of survival.I stepped aside, letting him take the center of the room without lowering my weapon. The moment was electric, a fuse lit on both ends.Then it happened.A shout from the street. Tires squealing. The corner man ducked behin

The safe house was smaller than I remembered—a brick box of a place with one crooked window that breathed out the city's rain when the wind leaned wrong. Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old cigarette smoke, a cheap attempt at normalcy stitched over the ragged edge of our lives. Someone had swept; someone had tried to make a bed. It felt obscene and holy at the same time.Matteo dropped to the couch as if the floor might open beneath him. His hands still shook; his breath came in shallow, quick pulls. Luca prowled the perimeter like an animal that could not decide whether to sleep or strike. Nico moved through the room with the economy of someone who had learned to reserve every gesture—checking locks, peering through blinds, folding himself into the smallest possible shape while remaining watchful.I stood in the doorway and let the scene arrange itself around me. The wet on my coat evaporated into the stale heat. For a moment I wanted to peel the skin off my shou

The house breathed different when we returned. Walls that had once been background felt watchful, their plaster carrying the tension we brought in with us. Matteo paced the narrow hall, a wolf in shoes too tight, while Luca stripped weapons out on the kitchen table, metal clinking like punctuation in a language made only of war.The smell of oil and steel was thick enough to choke. It was home in the way scars are: ugly, permanent, familiar.Nico peeled off his jacket, his eyes never leaving me even when he was moving. “We don’t have much time. If Marco’s right, Umbra will start early. They like the dark because they think it makes them gods.”Matteo barked a laugh, harsh and bitter. “Or maybe they like the dark because rats don’t survive in daylight.”No one corrected him.I lowered myself into a chair and pressed my palms flat against the wood, grounding myself. “We need to decide. Do we take Marco’s word and pull everyone back from the pier? Or do we hold both places and split our