All Chapters of CLAIMED BY THE DEVIL DON.: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The Falco cut through the Ionian with the speed of a guided missile, the salt spray obscuring the windows of the tactical room. The entire operation was in motion—Domenico’s air assets were positioned high, Viktor’s assault team was ready on the neighboring interceptor, and I was counting the final minutes until the collision.I sat at the main table, my hands resting on the cold steel, analyzing the three-dimensional map that tracked the San Vittore. My focus should have been on the breach pattern, but the internal security failure, the betrayal, was a sickness I could not enter the final battle carrying. I needed to cut out the rot.Alexander appeared at my shoulder, holding a data pad with a quiet intensity that always signaled a successful, albeit disturbing, discovery. He hadn't slept in days, yet his movements were precise, his mind sharp.“The financial analysis is complete, Vova,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the roaring engine. “The extraction team that entered t

The assault craft, christened the Vendetta, was a black blur cutting across the Aegean. The twin engines screamed, a high, constant pitch that vibrated through the steel deck and into the marrow of my bones. I sat in the co-pilot seat, my rifle secured, the spray shield protecting me from the cold, violent mist. The scent of salt and burning fuel was the perfume of war.Rocco, my older brother by twelve minutes, stood at the helm, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the distant, dark mass of Paros. Beside him, Salvatore, the middle brother, was cleaning the blade of his favorite knife with meticulous care, though the steel was already spotless.The atmosphere was thick with the residue of our last operation, the cleansing of the Spanish faction Gutierez commanded. Rocco’s savage efficiency had secured the necessary delay for Vladimir, and Salvatore’s brutal silence had ensured the message was permanently etched into the minds of Damon’s mercenaries. We were a well-oiled machine of rag

The sterile medical bay inside the Paros villa was less a place of healing and more a gilded cage. It was small, bathed in the unforgiving white glare of clinical lights, and smelled sharply of antiseptic and metal. I lay still, the heavy, constant pressure in my abdomen a reminder that the window for action was closing. The nurse, a nervous, competent woman with pale eyes, was adjusting the monitors at the end of the cot.Then the door flew open, hitting the marble wall with a violent smack. Damon strode in, his tailored suit rumpled, his breathing ragged. The broadcast of Vladimir’s supposed retreat—The Winter King retreats to the Tundra—had clearly reached him. He wasn’t gloating; he was enraged, fueled by a mixture of relief and consuming panic. He looked like a cornered animal who had just been given a brief, terrifying glimpse of escape.“Get out,” Damon barked at the nurse, pointing a finger trembling with fury toward the door. “Now. If you breathe a word of this, your children

The assault helicopter cut through the night air, its engine a relentless, deafening pulse that rattled the fillings in my teeth. I was fully geared—Kevlar, suppressed primary, and a cold, absolute certainty in my eyes. Paros was directly ahead, a dark, mountainous silhouette waiting to swallow us whole.My eyes were glued to the tablet fixed to the bulkhead. It showed only a blank space where Ivan’s encrypted locator beacon should have been pulsing. Three hours ago, I had ordered my most cautious, least violent lieutenant to do the unthinkable: a solo, cold-breach reconnaissance of the deepest level of the Paros villa’s secondary structure. Domenico’s men had secured the main perimeter, but they couldn't risk the noise of breaching the sub-levels. The entire plan hinged on confirming if the villa contained a private maritime escape tunnel—a signature construction style Damon often copied from old Italian safehouses.He should have checked in thirty minutes ago. Thirty minutes of sile

The moment my boots hit the unforgiving ground of the Paros cove, the noise of the helicopter retreated, leaving behind the immense, echoing silence of military readiness. The air was cool, carrying the scent of dry earth and impending death. I was surrounded by the best of my own men and the most loyal of Domenico's, all shadows waiting for the signal.Domenico met me by a cluster of jagged rocks, away from the immediate sight of the men. His face, illuminated by the faint tactical lights, was grim. He hadn't come down here to wish me luck; he had come to negotiate the terms of the assassination. He was ensuring that even in the final, blind act of my personal vengeance, the alliance remained functional.“Rocco confirmed the tunnel entrance is secured,” Domenico stated, bypassing formalities. His voice was low, heavy. “Ivan is alive. Trapped, but alive. The triplets are moving to breach the secondary chamber now. They will secure him and then move to the submersible dock.”“Good,” I