All Chapters of Falling For The Mafia Boss: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Raven’s POV Three days passed before Mario called. He didn’t say much,he never did. Just a location and a time which was midnight.A high-rise hotel near the city center. The kind of place with triple locks and no questions. Franca raised an eyebrow when I read the text aloud. “More bourbon and vague threats?” “Hopefully fewer bullets this time,” I muttered. Lucas didn’t say anything he just handed me my coat like a chauffeur in mourning. “You sure you want to go alone?” Franca asked. “No one else was invited.” “You know you’re not expendable, right?” I smirked. “Sure I am. I’m just more expensive to replace.” The suite was floor-to-ceiling velvet, chrome, and the smell of stale cigars. Mario was already there, sitting in an armchair like a king in exile. Beside him stood a man I didn’t recognize but younger wearing sharper suit with eyes that never blinked. “This is my nephew,” Mario said. “Rico.” Of course he had a nephew. Rico offered a hand. I didn’t take it. “She’s

Raven’s POV Selene was gone, again. There's no sign of forced entry,no blood in sight or any broken furniture.Just the breeze blowing through a cracked window then a note I later found which said “Don’t trust Rico.” And another Polaroid of me, asleep. Captured from the same angle, same grainy distance, same off-white edges like a relic from a nightmare that never ended. It was starting to feel personal. Rico leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me like I was a ticking bomb. “She’s screwing with your head,” he said flatly. “She’s warning me.” “Same thing.” I held the note between two fingers like it might bite me. “You think she staged all this?” “I think she’s good at making people doubt what’s right in front of them.” I turned toward him. “And what exactly is right in front of me, Rico?” His jaw clenched. “Me. And the fact that this mission’s unraveling faster than you’re willing to admit.” Franca pinged in not long after, voice cool and direct in my ear.

Raven’s POV There’s a certain calm before a storm. It isn't silence and not peace. Just… the world pausing, as if waiting to see who will pull the trigger. We were in that pause. The UmbraChain files sat backed up in three places. One was encrypted in a flash drive in Franca’s satchel, another embedded in the lining of my jacket, and a third hidden inside a hollowed-out book in Rico’s duffel. Paranoia wasn’t a flaw anymore. It was a survival trait. We were back in Paris. Not by choice, but by necessity. Castor had too many roots here too many shadows that still moved when no one was looking. The UmbraChain list showed us names, yes, but not movements. Not alliances. Not who was sitting down with who. For that, we needed Thierry Dumas. Franca got the address through a journalist contact. Dumas had moved into a private estate in Saint-Cloud a place so secure it didn’t even show up on public satellite imaging. What did show up, thanks to Franca’s handiwork, were six armed guards, t

Matteo’s POV They buried my father in a box smaller than his influence. There was no parade to honour him and no marble on his grave. Just a family plot in Naples no one had visited in a decade, guarded by silence and three plainclothes men pretending not to know me. The priest mispronounced his name. My mother cried in her own language the one she never taught me. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t sure I knew how. Tito Esposito was many things to many people: a broker, a killer, a kingmaker, a father. To me, he was a lesson that never stopped being tested. Even in death, he played instructor. There wasn't any closure or final confession. Just silence and one last assignment. The envelope arrived twelve hours after the burial. It was plain white and my was name printed in block type like it was part of a military file. Inside: a keycard,burner phone,a printed message. “He trusted you to finish it;Vault B,Madrid.” There was nosignature, no crest. But the scent of it was unmistakable. Thi

Matteo’s POV Zurich was colder than usual. Not weather-wise but politically. Every contact I’d inherited from my father had grown skittish or arrogant. The old guards were either overcompensating or vanishing. The Circle was reforming in whispers and fragments. My father hadn’t left a kingdom. He left a vacuum. And every vacuum pulls in monsters. I spent the next three days cleaning up those who thought they could act without asking. Made no use of bullets,not yet. I was just paying them visits and engaging in conversations. A series of quiet, unnerving reminders that I knew where their families slept and which passports they thought were safe. But I didn’t want compliance. I wanted silence. Control is about tone, not volume. On the fourth day, I met with Mira Volkov. She ran the Baltic accounts, the woman my father once called “the scalpel.” She preferred shadows to security and had a way of making every sentence feel like a double entendre. I found her in the greenhouse of a