Lahat ng Kabanata ng Obsession of the Mafia King: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

The storm that had been gathering in the shadows of their reign finally struck with full force.For weeks, Dante and Amara had sensed the shifting undercurrents among their lieutenants—flickers of hesitation in meetings, the careful phrasing of words, the way certain men exchanged glances when they thought no one was watching. Power had a way of eroding loyalty, and though they had crushed Lorenzo and bathed their empire in blood to secure their thrones, not every soul in their ranks had embraced the new order wholeheartedly.That night, the fracture revealed itself.---The Whisper of TreacheryIt was Marco, one of Dante’s oldest enforcers, who stumbled upon it. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol as he entered Dante’s private office in the old Venetian villa they now used as their ruling seat. His face was grim, eyes shadowed with a truth he hated to deliver.“They’re moving behind your back,” Marco said, his voice low. “Some of the men—old loyalists to Lorenzo—are whispering

The sun bled red across the horizon, staining the sky with the color of war. The city of Venice lay beneath its fading glow like a wounded beast—majestic still, but scarred, smoke curling from the skeletons of buildings that once pulsed with life. It was here that Dante Moretti and Amara had claimed their empire. And it was here that their enemies had chosen to strike again.The night before had been a storm of fire and betrayal. A section of their southern docks—crucial for shipments and weapons—had been burned to ash. Dozens of loyal men had died in the blaze, trapped beneath collapsing beams, their screams swallowed by the inferno. The enemy hadn’t shown themselves, only left a mark: a crude symbol, a crown pierced with a dagger, scrawled in blood across the blackened stones.Dante stood on the scorched docks at dawn, the acrid scent of smoke filling his lungs. His sharp suit was streaked with ash, but his stance was unyielding, jaw clenched as if the whole city rested on his shoul

The night was cruelly silent. Too silent.Dante sat at the edge of the long mahogany table in their private chamber, his hands clasped tightly as though they might shatter with the pressure. Amara stood by the window, the moonlight catching on the sharp angles of her face. They were both awake, yet neither had spoken in hours. The silence between them was heavier than any gun, thicker than any blood spilled in the streets.Amara finally broke it.“They will never stop coming for us, Dante.”Her voice was low, controlled, but under it lay exhaustion—exhaustion from endless battles, betrayals, and enemies who rose like hydras no matter how many heads they cut off.Dante’s jaw tightened. “Then let them come. They will die like the rest.”But Amara turned from the window, her eyes flashing. “That’s the problem. They don’t die like the rest. Every corpse we leave behind births two more enemies. We have created a war without end. And one day…” She hesitated, the words bitter in her throat.

The night was cloaked in uneasy silence, broken only by the faint sound of the sea lapping against the shore below the villa. Dante stood on the terrace, hands gripping the iron railing, staring into the distance as if the horizon itself would reveal answers. The storm that had begun with whispers and shadows had not passed—it had only grown darker.Behind him, Amara entered, her presence as quiet as the moonlight that slipped through the glass doors. “You’re brooding again,” she said softly, her voice carrying that mixture of tease and worry she reserved only for him.Dante didn’t turn. “We’ve cut down enemies for years. Lorenzo, his remnants, traitors within our circle. And yet…” He exhaled sharply. “Something feels wrong. Like we’re being watched. Judged.”Amara walked closer, brushing her hand across his tense shoulders. “We are always watched. Always judged. That is the crown we wear, Dante. King and Queen of blood.”His lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.

The night was thick with smoke. The ruins of the small villa still glowed faintly with embers, and the acrid smell of charred wood clung to the air like a curse. Dante stood in the wreckage, boots crunching against broken glass and ash. His men fanned out around him, rifles at the ready, eyes scanning the shadows. But Dante wasn’t looking for enemies—he was searching for ghosts.Amara stepped carefully over a collapsed beam, her gown streaked with soot and her eyes sharp, glinting like a blade under the flickering moonlight. She didn’t flinch at the carnage. Not anymore. She had grown too used to walking through blood and fire.“This was no ordinary attack,” Dante muttered, crouching near the blackened wall where scorch marks bled outward like veins. He ran his fingers across the ash, his jaw tightening. “Whoever did this wanted us to know it was a message.”Amara’s lips curved, not in amusement but in cold recognition. “A message written in fire and flesh.” Her gaze lingered on the b