All Chapters of Falling For The Mafia Boss: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Raven's POV The moment the words left my mouth, everything shifted. The calm, calculated tension that had been hanging in the car turned into raw, adrenaline-fueled motion. It was time to execute, time to move from the waiting game into the action. The clock was ticking, and every second felt like a lifetime. Franca’s voice crackled in my ear. "Cameras are down. You’re good to go." "Copy that," I responded, my voice steady despite the pressure mounting. I was already out of the car, my boots hitting the cold, damp concrete with a muted thud. The rain had picked up, but that didn’t matter. The wet ground was our friend, it muffled our steps, concealing our presence as we went. I moved with a ghost’s grace, slipping through the shadows towards the east entrance of the warehouse. Lucas was close behind me, his silhouette blending with the darkness, his mask making him look like a predator—silent, lethal, and focused. I could feel his presence just inches away, his readiness almo

Raven's POV The truck slid around a sharp corner, tires screeching as we barely avoided a few stray puddles that could have slowed us down. The rain had begun to ease, but the night still felt like a constant weight on my chest. The sound of the engine was the only thing I could focus on, drowning out everything else, even my thoughts. We’d made it. For now. The safe house was only five minutes away, hidden deep in the outskirts of the city, tucked behind a row of forgotten warehouses and dilapidated buildings. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for the next twenty-four hours—enough to catch our breath and assess the situation. Carter pushed the truck harder, maneuvering it through the streets with precision. We were no longer just thieves running with stolen money; we were hunted animals, trying to outrun a pack of wolves. The Cartel wouldn’t stop until they found us, and I knew it was only a matter of time before they realized that thirty million dollars had disappeared. "A

Raven’s POVThe night was damp and biting cold, the kind that clung to your skin like guilt. I stood still outside the abandoned warehouse, the same one I named in the note. The only light came from a dying streetlamp flickering like it was on its last breath honestly, same.This was a test, not just of my plan but of myself…my nerve…my bluff…my ability to convince one of the most dangerous men in Spain that I was worth more alive than dead. The thing was, I wasn’t here to survive. I was here to win.The wind picked up, tossing my coat around my legs like a cape I didn’t ask for. I’d worn simple black nothing flashy I didn't have any jewelry on no phone in hand no metal weapon except for a single blade sewn into my boot and a tiny mic embedded in the lining of my collar. Franca would be listening, chewing her nails somewhere, probably cursing in three languages. I didn’t blame her even I was vaguely regretting my life choices, and I made this one.A distant hum grew louder,engines. T

Raven’s POV It wasn’t supposed to feel this quiet after a kill… I sat at the kitchen counter in the safehouse, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. Franca was lying on the couch, typing something fast and furious into her laptop, her earbuds in. She hadn’t said much since I came back from Madrid. I was done and over with the job as Antonio Ramírez is dead, the file was burned. The bodyguards would be reported missing in forty-eight hours, probably dumped in some riverbed by then. No blowback. Clean. But this wasn’t about a clean job. This was about sending a message and the message was: I’m not bluffing. I kept expecting the burner phone to ring again. Another voice, another test. Maybe even a compliment. They liked compliments in this business. Praise and bullets are the only currencies that mattered. “You’re quieter than usual,” Franca said, without looking up. “Thinking.” “You always say that when you’re feeling something and pretend

Raven’s POV Barcelona smelled like diesel, citrus, and betrayal. I arrived before dawn, disguised as a cargo handler with a forged manifest and a Spanish accent I hadn’t used since I was seventeen. My bag held less than I needed and more than I wanted: one pistol, one syringe, two burner phones, and a laminated photo of my father folded into a cracked leather wallet. Not for sentiment but rage. The industrial district looked like it had been bombed sometime in the eighties and forgotten since. Cracked pavement, broken fences, graffiti layered like bruises. I passed a truck depot where men drank out of dented thermoses, eyes hollow with too many sunrises. This was cartel territory owned, operated, and occasionally scorched. I belonged here now at least that’s what they thought. But I wasn’t here to belong,I was here to send a message. The first target was Mateo Ruiz a mid-tier captain, ego bigger than his security detail. Franca’s intel said he ran three fake import fronts from