All Chapters of STUCK WITH THE MAFIA TWINS: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

CHELSEA’S POV They let me go after three days. ‘Oh Mrs Chelsea, your body bounced back stronger than ever.’ The doctor said it like it was a good thing. Three fucking days ago I almost died. Matter of fact. I did. I died. I died because whatever life is in me, is not mine. Ricci held my hand the whole drive back. I didn’t remember the road, the city, or the iron gates opening slowly in front of us—but my body reacted anyway. My stomach tightened. My shoulders stiffened. Back to the fuck ass hell hole. The manor felt wrong. Not haunted. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like a place where something bad had already decided to happen again. Darkened lurked everywhere. What happened to this place? Ricci didn’t let go of me inside. He stayed close, too close, like if he loosened his grip I’d fall through the floor. At night I woke up gasping like the world was crashing down and every time, his arms were already around me. “I’m here,” he kept saying. “You’re okay.” I belie

NARRATOR’S POV: The operating room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of machines, counting down the minutes of Chelsea’s life. Fourteen hours. Thats’s how long the surgery lasted. Every minute felt like eternity. Fourteen hours of surgeons moving in perfect coordination, of blood and precision, of a bullet lodged deep inside her skull being carefully extracted. Outside the glass wall, Ricci stood rigid, hands pressed against the counter, watching without looking. His heart was too loud; it drowned out the soft whirring of the monitors. He kept one thing in mind: Chelsea must stay alive. Finally, a voice broke the tension. “It’s out. She’s stable.” A surgeon said, walking out of the operating room in such a hurry, Ricci couldn’t start a conversation. After standing and holding his breath for fourteen hours, he could finally move and breathe. The news delivered by the surgeon sounded better than anything Ricci has ever heard. Relief hit him like

The manor did not celebrate the marriage. The one between Ricci and Aria? Yeah. The most dead wedding ever witnessed. No flowers arrived at its gates. No champagne was chilled in anticipation. No laughter followed the announcement down the marble corridors. No guests, no glass raised in cheers. The Rutherford estate absorbed the news the way it absorbed everything else—quietly, bitterly, with something rotten settling deeper into its bones. Aria woke alone. The space beside her on the bed was untouched, cold, as if no one had even considered lying there. Ricci hadn’t slept beside her. He hadn’t come in late. He hadn’t pretended. The sheets were still too neat, too deliberate, like the room itself refused to acknowledge what had been signed into existence. She lay on her side, one hand resting on her stomach out of instinct rather than comfort, staring at the ceiling while dawn bled slowly through the curtains. This is the life she so desperately wanted. The life she thought

Andrea Giovanni Ambers did not come armed. That was the first mistake Nathara made when the doors burst open- and assumed she had seen a ghost: a ghost who took a wrong turn The room stilled—not because of fear, but recognition. The kind that crawled under the skin before logic caught up. Andrea stood in the threshold like a ghost that had learned to breathe again, shoulders rigid, eyes sunken, grief carved so deep into his face it looked permanent. “What are you doing here?” Nathara’s voice slipped out, obviously controlling her shock. Ricci’s pen slipped from his fingers. Andrea didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at Aria. His gaze went straight to Nathara. “You promised me,” Andrea said quietly. Nathara tilted her head, assessing, already calculating angles. “You’re trespassing. Who even let you in?” “My wife is dead,” Andrea continued, voice shaking now. “My youngest daughter is in foster care. And my eldest—” His breath hitched. “—is dying in a hospital y

“Closure. That’s all I need.” Chelsea repeated as Matteo drove her to the manor. When they arrived, Chelsea’s jaw remained slacked. It was much more different than she had imagined. Chelsea expected resistance. She expected guards, or threats, or at least a reminder that the manor still belonged to someone, that it still had teeth. Instead, she found barricades. Three streets from the house, police vans idled, their engines low and patient. Cameras rose the moment her car slowed, lenses snapping toward her face as if they’d been waiting for her specifically, as if the manor had sent them a message. Beyond the barricades, the house stood the same — white walls, tall gates, the kind of architecture that made you feel smaller simply by existing near it — and yet it looked different in the way a familiar face looks different when you see it in a coffin. Voices filled the air. Laughter. Tourists craning their necks, whispering, taking photos. Someone asked if this was whe