Lahat ng Kabanata ng My Mafia Husband Thought, I Was Innocent : Kabanata 201 - Kabanata 209

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE VORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – The final 48 hoursThe door locked with a click that sounded like a starting gun.Dante didn’t speak. He just looked at me, eyes black with forty-eight hours of borrowed time, and crossed the room in three strides.His mouth crashed into mine, teeth clashing, tongues sliding, tasting blood and desperation.I ripped his shirt open; buttons pinged off the wall. He yanked my tank over my head, bra following, palms immediately cupping my breasts, thumbs dragging hard over my nipples until I hissed.We didn’t make it to the bed.He spun me, slammed my front to the nearest wall, kicked my legs wide, and shoved my fatigues and panties down in one violent motion.Cool air hit my soaked cunt a second before his fingers did, three at once, no warning, stretching me open while his other hand fisted my hair and arched my neck back.“Mine,” he gr

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVETHE ROAD TO FIOLENT – 04:11 a.m.The convoy launches like a single warhead, every engine snarling in perfect sync as if the whole line of steel beasts shares one heartbeat.I sit in the back of the second Tigr, Dante’s hand locked around mine so tight I can feel both our pulses hammering through the gloves. The armored interior shudders with each gear shift, metal groaning like the chassis itself knows it’s being driven toward its own funeral.No lights inside.Only the dim red combat glow smearing over Dante’s jaw, turning every sharp line into something feral. His breathing is steady, but his thumb keeps brushing my knuckle like he’s afraid the world will try to steal me again.It tastes metallic in my mouth, adrenaline, gun oil, and the last kiss we stole under the garage lights before the engines roared to life.Nikolai’s voice crackles through comms, calm enough to be insul

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE FIOLENT FORTRESS – DawnThe sky is the color of dried blood when the last tower falls.I stand on the hood of the lead Tigr, wind whipping my hair, and watch the fortress die.One by one, the remaining walls fold inward. Roofs collapse with roars that shake the cliff. The sea below drinks the smoke.Gavriil is on his knees in front of me, wrists and ankles chained to a tow hook bolted to the bumper.He is barefoot, shirt torn open, the black-gold ring I once wore now hanging from a chain around his own neck like a noose.His face is streaked with soot and blood, but his eyes, those winter eyes, are still sharp.Still trying to own me.I crouch so we’re eye-level.“Look,” I say softly.He refuses.I grab his hair, force his head up.“Look at what you built, Gavriil. Look at it die.”A final explosion ripples through t

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVE VORONIN’S FORTRESS, CRIMEA – Dawn of Departure The convoy is already loaded. The sky is the color of wet ash. Voronin waits on the steps, coat collar turned up against the wind, cigarette glowing like a small red wound. I walk up to him alone. Dante hangs back by the car, arms crossed, watching. Voronin offers the half-smoked cigarette. I take it, inhale once, hand it back. “You own more than half of Russia now,” I say quietly. “From Kaliningrad to Vladivostok, pipelines, ports, half the aluminum plants, most of the black-market arms routes. Everything Gavriil bled for is yours.” He exhales smoke through his nose, eyes on the horizon. “I am aware.” I step closer. “Look at me.” He does. My voice is soft, but it carries th

CATALINA’S PERSPECTIVELUCCHESE ESTATE, VERONA – Five Years After the AshesLate-afternoon sunlight pours over the gardens in a thick, honey-gold spill, the kind of light Italy hoards for itself like a jealous lover. Everything gleams. Everything looks innocent.I know better than to trust beautiful things.Alejandro, six years old, long-limbed and loud, charges across the lower lawn with a wooden sword twice his size. The kid swings like a berserker. The two Caucasian shepherds, Bear and Ghost, lumber along beside him, pretending to cower even though either of them could flatten him with one paw.In my arms, Sofia kicks impatiently. Two years old, black hair, green eyes, temper measurable only in Richter scale units.“Down, Mamá. Sword!” she demands, stabbing her tiny fist downward.“No swords until you’re four,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “Even tyrants need limits.”She gives me the same betrayed