Semua Bab My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent : Bab 191 - Bab 200

DANTE’S PERSPECTIVE VERONA – 03:47 a.m., 72 hours after Catalina’s message was deliveredThe burner phone buzzed once on the nightstand.I was already awake. I hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a stretch since the day I left Russia.My son was asleep in the crib beside my bed, one month and thirteen days old, breathing soft and even. I stared at the phone like it was a live grenade.One new video file.I knew before I opened it.I carried the phone into the walk-in closet, closed the door, sat on the floor with my back against the safe, and pressed play.Her face filled the screen.The second I saw her eyes, dead, hollow, carved out, something inside me shattered so completely I didn’t make a sound.Then she spoke.“Dante… our son is dead.”The world went black at the edges.I heard the rest through a tunnel: I held him… so small… your mouth

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI & THE BLACK SEA COAST – Months 3–8 after the “death”The empire grew fat and careless, exactly the way I needed it.Gavriil’s name became a prayer and a curse from Batumi to Volgograd. Ports, pipelines, entire cities bowed. He celebrated every victory by dragging me to bed and fucking me until dawn, convinced the taste of my screams was proof of ownership.I let him believe it.I let him fall asleep with his hand curled around my throat like a collar.I let him wake to the sight of me cooking breakfast in nothing but his shirt and the black-gold ring that now lived on my right hand.I let him think the ring meant surrender.Every morning he kissed the inside of my wrist where the pulse beat steady and slow, and every morning I smiled like a woman in love while I calculated how many seconds it would take to slit that wrist open with the butter knife.We bec

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE SOCHI MANSION - The night of implementation 02:11The lights on the security console blinked out exactly on schedule.Every screen went black. Every turret powered down. The mansion fell into perfect, obedient darkness.I exhaled for the first time in months.It was working.I touched the comm in my ear. “Phase one complete. Grid is blind. Phase two...go.”Acknowledgments crackled back immediately, calm, professional, mine.“East wing clear.” “Guard barracks neutralized.” “Helipad charges set.”I closed my eyes and felt something like peace.Nine months of blood, semen, and lies, and tonight it ended.I walked the corridors like a ghost.Every corner I turned, men in black nodded at me, weapons lowered in respect. My men. The ones I had bought with money, mercy, or the promise of Gavriil’s head.

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Dawn after the fireThe SUV skidded through the gates at 05:47, tires screaming against stone still slick from night frost and ash. Smoke clung to the morning air, drifting in ribbons from the burned clothes I’d never bothered to change out of. My skin carried the stench of last night’s inferno, a scent that felt like it had burrowed straight into my bloodstream.I was out before the vehicle fully stopped. Boots hit gravel. Pain shot up my legs. Didn’t matter. I drew my pistol as naturally as breathing, grip steady despite the tremor hiding in my bones.Voronin waited at the top of the steps, coat unbuttoned, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The ember glowed like a single accusing eye.I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I stalked up the stairs and pressed the muzzle against his forehead. Hard enough that I saw the skin indent.“Te

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVEVORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Three nights after the reunionThe war room smelled of gun oil, coffee, and scorched pride.The kind of smell that seeps into your skin and stays there like a reminder that sleep is optional and vengeance isn’t.Voronin had returned at dawn, eyes blood-shot but steady, family safely hidden in a dacha outside Arkhangelsk.He walked in, dropped a duffel of detonators on the table, and simply said, “I’m all in.”No theatrics. No speeches. Just a man who’d decided dying was preferable to running.Now the table was covered in satellite photos, blueprints, and a single red marker circling one location.Gavriil’s new primary residence, an old Soviet naval fortress on Cape Fiolent, rebuilt into a cliffside palace of concrete and paranoia.I stood at the head of the table in black fatigues, hair braided tight, the black-gold ring now hanging on a chain around m