Semua Bab Oops! I Mistakenly Kidnapped The Mafia Don’s Heir: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Chapter 10 Kegan ✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦ I fucking hate the country side. Mostly because it smelled like cow shit. I’d been tracking this bastard for eighteen hours straight, fueled by nothing but spite and just the right amount of espresso that could restart a dead man’s heart. My Armani suit— a sleek navy one that I’d picked up just last night—was absolutely fucked. Mud splattered up to my knees, a three-inch gash in the jacket courtesy of a rusty fence I’d had to parkour over like some budget Jason Bourne. My fucking Balenciagas were never going to recover from this. No thanks to this shit show. The barn sat at the end of a dirt road that looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance since the Renaissance. Every low-level enforcer thought the countryside meant safety. Like we didn’t have satellites. Like Russel didn’t personally own half the cows shitting in these fields. I parked the Maserati behind a cluster of trees, far enough back that mud wouldn’t hit the paint job, and pulled out my

Chapter 12 Kegan ✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦ Via Corsica was one of those streets that looked respectable during the day. Cafés, tourist shops, a bakery that made decent cornetti. But at night? Different story. The back alleys came alive with businesses that definitely didn’t advertise and didn’t pay taxes. For this particular establishment, calling it a “den” was generous, really. It was operated out of a basement beneath a closed pizzeria, you had to know the right door to knock on. Had to know the password. Had to know someone who knew someone. Lucky for me, I knew everyone. I parked two blocks away—didn’t need the Maserati getting keyed by some drunk gambler who’d lost his rent money—and walked the rest of the way. Tonight, the air was warm, sticky with that particular Mediterranean humidity that made poor couples make more babies than their measly salaries could feed. My phone buzzed. Marco. “Status?” “Still here. Still losing. Just ordered his fourth whiskey.” “Beautif

Chapter 14 Estelle ✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦ I woke to the sound of voices. Right outside my room. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then the pain reminded me—a dull, persistent ache in my lower abdomen. Not as bad as earlier, thank god, but still there. The door was still cracked open. I could see light from the hallway, could make out shadows moving. “—completely unacceptable—” “I didn’t know what to do.” A man’s voice. Defensive. “She was yelling about woman problems. I’m not—I don’t deal with that!” “So you left her on the floor?” Another voice. Deeper. Angry. Familiar. Kegan. “She was fine—” “She was crying in agony, you idiot! Grazia found her in the bathtub, fully clothed, barely conscious!” “I didn’t know it was that serious—” “You didn’t bother to find out.” He hissed. “I told you before—the girl is not a fucking prisoner. For all we know, she could sue us tomorrow if it turns out we’re wrong. The least you can do is treat her nicely.” The temperature in the hallway seemed

Chapter 16 Kegan ✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦ The hot water burned. I turned it hotter. Steam filled the shower until the mirrors fogged over and I couldn’t see my own reflection anymore. Perfect. I didn’t want to look at myself right now anyway. My third shower in two hours. Still didn’t feel clean. The water had run cold the first time. Scalding the second. Now I just stood there with my forehead pressed against the tile, letting it beat down on my skull like it could wash away more than blood and gunpowder residue. It couldn’t. Blood had a smell. Metallic. Sharp. It lived in your nose, coated the back of your throat, stayed there long after you’d scrubbed your hands raw. I’d washed them five times already. Could still smell it. I scrubbed harder. The man on the stairs hadn’t even seen me coming. Just appeared in the doorway, gun half-raised, and I’d put two rounds in his chest before he could blink. Dead. I pressed my palms flat against the tile and tried to breathe through the tightnes

Chapter 18 Kegan ✦༺⚜︎☠︎⚜︎༻✦ Luca met us at the bottom, clipboard in hand like we were running a very fucked up business and not a torture operation. “Both awake,” he reported. “Younger one’s in Room One. Already crying. Keeps asking for a lawyer.” “A lawyer?” I chuckled loudly. “What does he think this is, Law & Order?” “Apparently. Older one’s in Room Two. Tough dude. Not talking. Just staring at the wall.” “Perfect. I’ll start with the scared one. Fear makes people chatty.” I turned to Russel. “You stay out here. Let me soften him up first.” “I want to watch.” “Fine. But you don’t speak and you don’t move. You just stand there and look terrifying. Can you do that?” “I’m literally always doing that.” “Fair point.” Luca handed me a file. “Everything we found on him. Wallet, phone, some cash. Name’s Cristian Popescu. Romanian. Twenty-four. Has a record—petty theft, assault, weapons charges.” I flipped through the file. Cristian’s ID photo showed a baby-faced kid with dark e