All Chapters of CLAIMED BY THE DEVIL DON.: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

I surfaced in waves of agony. The scent of disinfectants and stale concrete was the first thing that hit me, followed by a dull, throbbing ache that spanned from my temples to my pelvis. The movement and the blow had accelerated everything. I was past the point of practice; this was real labor.I was lying on a thin, uncomfortable cot. The room was small, windowless, and poorly lit by a single fluorescent strip, a basement bunker, not a clinic.Damon was seated on a metal folding chair beside me. The chaos of the breach outside had clearly ended, but his jacket was ripped, a smear of dirt marked his immaculate shirt, and a cut bled faintly above his eyebrow. He was no longer the composed predator; he was a scarred survivor.He was using a damp cloth to gently clean the scrape on my forehead, an act of calculated, repulsive intimacy.“Ah, you’re awake, bellissima,” he murmured, his voice too soft, too close. “I had worried for a moment that the strain of your theatrics might have caused

Vladimir's PovThe holographic map was the only thing that held my attention. Illuminated by the cold blue light of the projected data, the Mediterranean looked less like a sea and more like a circuit board where the current had just been correctly routed. Chiara’s information, combined with Isabella’s desperate, brilliant ‘North Star’ signal buried in the contract, had delivered the target solution.The cross-reference confirmed it: Salvatore was using a small, defunct coastal station in the Ionian Sea, planning a swift transfer to a private vessel bound for the open Atlantic. He wasn’t in Tunis yet; he was staging a critical stopover to consolidate his prize before the final escape.He thinks he’s clever. He saw the chaos in Greece and assumed the sea was too exposed. He didn’t realize that by triggering the asset clause, Isabella gave me the key to his entire maneuver. He ran a marathon; she ran a perfect sprint. She bought me the certainty I needed.I felt the tension drain from my

Vladimir PovThe remnants of the pier battle were being sanitized. The smoke had cleared, but the metallic tang of blood and brine still hung heavy in the air. Damon Salvatore was sedated, awaiting transfer to an ultra-secure black site. Marco, the Italian lieutenant, was conscious, strapped to a chair in a makeshift interrogation room, a necessary evil.I stood apart, alone in the silence that followed the slaughter. Marco had already given up the location of the bunker: a decommissioned military complex near Preveza, Greece. I had the target. But I needed a moment of absolute clarity before the final strike.Viktor found me there, leaning against a cold concrete pillar, staring at the gray line where the sea met the sky. Viktor, who had been tasked with the impossible job of securing Irina's remains from the bombed manor and arranging her final rites. He was the only man in my organization who could hold a piece of my humanity without judging the monster I had become.He approached w

Vladimir PovThe interrogation chamber was a sterile, steel-clad box tucked deep inside the temporary base near Kavala. The air was thick with the faint metallic scent of old blood and the acrid sting of ozone from the nearby surveillance equipment. Marco, the Sicilian lieutenant, was secured, but I was not interested in his pathetic life anymore. He had given up the bunker location; his utility had expired.I was focused on the newer acquisition: a low-ranking Spanish capo named Rafael, captured during the mop-up operation on the pier. Rafael was a sniveling coward, easily broken, but his fear was precisely what made him valuable. Cowards hold the keys because they are often kept close to the back door.Viktor, whose face was still set in the hard lines of a man mourning, was supervising the effort. Alexander stood beside me, monitoring the data feeds, his efficiency a small, cold comfort in the surrounding storm of my fury.“I am done with the games, Rafael,” I stated, my voice low b

The final approach was underway. I was sequestered in the small, hardened cabin of the Italian missile boat, the Falco. The craft was a brutal blur of speed, cutting across the dark Ionian waves toward the coordinates of the San Vittore. Every vibration of the engine was a ticking clock against the final, inevitable showdown with Damon.I had ordered the room cleared. Ivan was coordinating the perimeter from the tactical deck; Domenico was piloting the accompanying air support. I needed these moments, not to rest, but to compress the seismic force of my rage into a single, lethal point. Every calculated move, every execution, every alliance forged in the last week had been driven by the image of Isabella in that cold cell, giving birth alone.I was cleaning the primary weapon, a specialized combat knife, the steel cold and familiar in my hands. The methodical repetition of oiling the blade was a poor distraction, but it was all the anchor I had left. The blood on my gloves from the ear