All Chapters of Obsession of the Mafia King: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The Moretti estate had a strange stillness to it that morning.Amara woke to the muted hum of the city beyond the tall windows, the white curtains swaying faintly in the breeze. It was the kind of quiet that felt intentional, like someone had smoothed the air flat. She had almost gotten used to the background sounds—footsteps of guards outside her door, muffled conversations in the hall—but today, there was only silence.She pulled on one of Dante’s shirts—it hung loosely on her frame, smelling faintly of cedar and smoke—and padded barefoot toward the kitchen.She found him there, leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in hand. His black shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He looked less like a mafia king and more like a man who’d just gotten out of bed.For a moment, it felt… normal.---“Morning,” she said, voice still husky from sleep.His eyes slid over her, pausing just long enough to make her pulse pick up. “Morning.”She reached for the kettle. “

The safehouse’s morning air was unusually quiet. Too quiet. Amara lay in the small bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying the chaos of the shooting—glass shattering, Dante’s arm locking around her, the smell of blood and gunpowder. She still felt the echo of it in her chest. She expected today to be about recovery, maybe more strategy meetings with Dante’s men, maybe another round of arguments about her safety. Instead, when Dante appeared in the doorway, he was already dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, the faint scent of his cologne threading into the air before him. “Get ready,” he said. “Formal dress. The black one in the wardrobe.” She blinked at him. “Why?” “You’ll see.” His voice left no space for negotiation. --- She thought about pushing back. Asking questions. Demanding answers. But the memory of last night’s danger was still too raw, and she had learned that Dante’s moods were like loaded guns—you didn’t handle them recklessly. So she dressed. Th

The sun dipped low over Sicily, painting the horizon in strokes of crimson and gold. Amara stood by the balcony of their villa, the salty Mediterranean breeze lifting strands of her dark hair. The echoes of last night’s council still lingered in her mind—the way the men bowed their heads when Dante spoke, the way silence fell across the hall until he gave permission for words. For the first time, she had glimpsed the throne he commanded, not one made of gold or velvet, but of blood, fear, and loyalty.Dante had been different since then—more guarded, more watchful. His smile was rarer, his silences longer. Amara knew something had shifted. And she would soon find out why.---A Dinner InterruptedThat evening, the long dining table was laid with polished silver and crystal glasses. Amara sat across from Dante, who was cutting into his steak with deliberate precision. The tension in the air was thick, despite the luxury surrounding them.“Dante,” she said softly, her voice threading th

The storm that had been brewing in Dante’s world finally broke. It began on a night when the city seemed too quiet, when the shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and the streets of Florence carried a hush that felt unnatural. Amara had gone out with her sketchbook, eager for solitude, eager for peace away from the constant turbulence of Dante’s enemies and allies alike. But peace, as she was beginning to learn, was a luxury she could not afford.Her footsteps echoed softly as she crossed the narrow bridge over the Arno, the river reflecting the flicker of streetlamps. She had chosen this walk intentionally, avoiding crowded routes, wanting to breathe without the watchful eyes of bodyguards trailing her. She thought perhaps, foolishly, that Lorenzo Vitale’s threats were only meant for Dante—that she herself was just a pawn to unsettle him.She was wrong.---Amara stopped at the stone balustrade, sketchbook under her arm, the pencil between her fingers tapping absentmindedl

The nights inside Dante’s palazzo had begun to feel like a gilded prison. The marble floors gleamed, chandeliers shimmered like constellations trapped in crystal, and every window looked out at sprawling gardens manicured to perfection. Yet for Amara, each locked door, each shadow of a bodyguard at the edge of her vision, whispered the same truth—she wasn’t free.She sat by the tall French windows in her bedroom, moonlight painting her in silver. Her hands curled around the wrought-iron bars as if she could bend them with the sheer force of her will. The sea beyond the palazzo sang to her, waves crashing against the cliffs, a reminder of the vastness of the world outside Dante’s control.And yet, even as resentment coiled in her chest, a softer ache spread through her ribs every time she thought of him. Dante—her savior, her captor, her tormentor, her protector.The memory of his voice from the rescue haunted her."You are mine, Amara. I will burn the world to keep you safe."Her hea