My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 181 - チャプター 190

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI, RUSSIA – Week 4, Day 29 after the “death”The gym was a cathedral of violence.Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, black rubber mats, heavy bags swinging like corpses. Gavriil had turned the entire east wing into my personal coliseum: kickboxing ring in the center, Muay Thai pads, a cage wall for grappling, and a row of weapons I wasn’t supposed to notice yet.Today he brought me an opponent.A woman. Tall, cropped blonde hair, shoulders like a swimmer, eyes flat and professional. Former Spetsnaz, he said. Now one of his private trainers.Anya.She bowed slightly when she entered, no smile. Good. I didn’t want pleasantries.Gavriil leaned against the ropes, arms folded, scar livid under the harsh lights. He wore loose black gi pants and nothing else, watching me like I was about to perform for him.“Light contact,” he ordered Any

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI, RUSSIA – Week 4, Day 30I wanted to kill him with my bare hands.I wanted to fuck him until neither of us could breathe.The two desires were braided so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.I felt him before I saw him: the shift in air pressure when the gym door opened, the scent of gun oil and winter that always clung to his skin.My pulse answered before my mind did.He stepped into the ring shirtless, scar livid across his ribs, eyes already black with hunger.I hated that my body recognized him instantly; hated more that it arched toward him like a magnet.We didn’t speak.Words had become useless weeks ago.He moved first, or maybe I did; it didn’t matter.The first clash was pure violence: my shin cracking against his thigh, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone, the copper bloom of blood on both our tongues.Every strik

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI, RUSSIA The shower took exactly seven minutes. I made sure he heard every second of it: the water running, the glass door sliding, the low moan I let slip when the hot spray hit the bruises he’d left on my thighs.I didn’t lock the door. I wanted him to know he wasn’t allowed in.When I stepped out, towel wrapped loosely around me, hair dripping down my back, he was already in the kitchen.Naked except for the low-slung sweatpants I’d once told him I hated. He knew I loved the way they clung to his hips. He was trying to please me now.Good.The scent of espresso and fresh strawberries filled the open-plan space. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the Black Sea into molten gold.He stood at the island, back to me, slicing berries with military precision. Every muscle in his shoulders and arms flexed with the motion.

DANTE’S PERSPECTIVE VERONA, ITALY – Five weeks after the extraction My son is more than a month old today. He weighs four and a half kilos now, has Catalina’s mouth, her dark hair, the same stubborn cowlick at the crown of his head. When he’s hungry he makes this tiny, furious sound that is one hundred percent his mother. I know every inch of him by heart. I also know every crack in my own. I sit in the nursery at 03:14 a.m., same chair every night, rocking him while he finishes his bottle. The room is dark except for the night-light shaped like a black rose, Catalina’s favorite. His tiny fist is curled around my thumb, eyes half-closed, milk-drunk and perfect. I should feel whole. Instead I feel like a man who’s been gutted and left breathing. Voronin’s updates come twice a day, always encrypted, alwa

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVECHECHEN-INGUSH BORDER – 48 hours after the bargainThe convoy was small.Two armored G-Wagens, blacked-out windows, no plates.Four of Gavriil’s most trusted men in the lead car.Me in the second, alone in the back seat, wearing black fatigues, hair braided tight, Glock 19 on my thigh and a suppressed AK-12 across my lap.Gavriil had kissed me goodbye at the gate like a husband sending his wife to the market.He was still limping slightly from the night he’d tried to fuck me into submission.I’d left him sleeping it off, lips swollen, back shredded, cock raw.He thought he’d won something.I was about to win everything.The meeting point was an abandoned Soviet-era collective farm outside Kizlyar, halfway between Grozny and the Ingush border.Neutral ground.Burned-out barns, rusted tractors, the smell of old wheat and cordite in the air.Both sides w