All Chapters of Obsession of the Mafia King: Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

The rain hit the windshield like bullets, each drop sharp, urgent—like the pounding in Amara’s chest.She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles pale, as the wipers struggled against the storm. Naples was cloaked in darkness, the alleyways smeared in shadow, lit only by flickering neon signs and the occasional flash of lightning. Her old Renault coughed with exhaustion as it crawled up the narrow street.This wasn’t where she wanted to be.This wasn’t the life she was supposed to live.She was supposed to be in Florence right now, sketching marble statues in art school, sipping coffee in old piazzas—not driving to a mafia king’s estate to beg for her father’s life.Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the crumpled letter from her bag—ink smudged, paper damp.> “You owe me, Lorenzo Voss. And if your daughter doesn’t walk through my gates by midnight, your blood is the price.”— Dante MorettiTerror constricted her throat like a noose.She hated her father. Hated the gamblin

Amara hadn’t left her room in two days.She refused to eat the food brought by the staff. Refused to speak to Bianca. Refused to even look at the dress Dante sent her—a red silk thing that looked more like a trap than clothing.Instead, she stayed wrapped in a gray hoodie and jeans, her mind racing like a bird beating its wings against a cage.The more she tried to make sense of this place, of him, the more confused she became.Dante wasn’t just dangerous—he was unrelenting. His silence could be as suffocating as his presence. And somehow, not seeing him these last forty-eight hours had made her more anxious, not less.She hated it.She hated that she noticed his absence.She hated that some sick part of her wondered where he was.But above all—she hated herself for remembering his touch. The way his fingers had brushed her lip. How he’d stared at her like she was something divine and doomed all at once.Get a grip, Amara. He’s not a man. He’s a monster in a silk suit.A knock on the

The photo Alessandro gave her refused to leave her mind.Amara had stared at it for hours after the masquerade. The image of the bruised girl, the shadow of Dante behind her—gun in hand, expression unreadable—burned into her thoughts like acid.Is this the man I’m living with?She wasn’t naïve. She’d known from the beginning that Dante Moretti wasn’t just a mafia king—he was a killer, a man who ruled through fear, power, and precision.But there was a difference between knowing and seeing.Between rumors and proof.And now, a seed of doubt had been planted so deep it tangled around her bones.Who was the girl?What happened to her?Was she like me? Another pawn? Another woman he claimed—and destroyed?Amara needed answers.Even if they shattered everything.---It was just after dawn when she stormed through the west corridor of the Moretti estate. The guards didn’t stop her anymore. They’d learned—either let her pass, or deal with Dante’s wrath later.She found him in his private stu

The scent of stale coffee and unfulfilled potential clung to Amara Voss like a second skin. Her life, at twenty-two, was a muted watercolor – all soft grays and faded blues, devoid of the vibrant splashes her art history textbooks promised. Mornings began with the screech of her ancient alarm clock, a jarring prelude to the symphony of financial dread that hummed beneath the surface of her existence. Lorenzo Voss, her father, was a ghost of a man, his presence in their cramped apartment marked only by mounting debts and an ever-present, suffocating shadow. He was rarely home, his apologies for his absences as thin and worn as the soles of her cheapest sneakers. Amara bore the brunt of his failures, working two part-time jobs alongside her university studies, her textbooks often smudged with grease from the diner kitchen or scented with cheap disinfectant from the campus library where she tutored.Her dream of painting, of seeing her vibrant imagination spill onto canvas, felt like a