บททั้งหมดของ OWNED BY THE ENEMY, His Dark Claim: บทที่ 141 - บทที่ 150

Alessandro’s POV I drove to the hospital like the road owed me answers. Red lights meant nothing. Corners blurred. My hands were tight on the steering wheel, my chest constricting with a fear I refused to name. All I knew was that Damian’s voice still echoed in my head—Amara is awake—and everything else could wait. When I finally reached the hospital, the smell of antiseptic and silence hit me at once. A nurse confirmed what I already knew: Amara was out of surgery. Stable. Awake. Moved to her room. I exhaled. Then I saw Damian. He welcomed me with a smile—wide, almost glowing—and something about it felt… wrong. Too bright. Too pleased. This wasn’t just relief. This was happiness layered with something else, something he was holding back. I studied him carefully. There was a story there. But asking him outright would only make it strange, so I said nothing. I told myself I’d wait. Damian had never been good at hiding things for long. As I walked toward Amara’s room, I ran i

Victor’s POV After everything that had happened—after watching Don Francesco turn his back on me without a second thought—I understood one thing with brutal clarity: loyalty meant nothing in this world unless it was useful. And right now, I needed to be useful. Don Francesco had chosen Alessandro the moment things became complicated. Not because Alessandro was right, but because he was convenient. I had seen it too many times before—men like Don Francesco always chose the side that kept their hands clean and their power intact. That realization hardened something inside me. If survival meant standing beside Alessandro, then so be it. But I wasn’t naïve. I had seen what Alessandro had done at the warehouse, the cold precision with which he had erased anyone connected to Amara’s suffering. That wasn’t grief alone—it was transformation. And I feared what came next. Would Alessandro keep digging? Would he hunt for the man behind the mask until every shadow was exposed? That ques

Amara’s POV I had sent Elena to fetch everything I would need for Russia—clothes for myself, warm wraps for baby Venera, documents, the little things no one ever remembered until it was too late. From my bed, I watched Elena move around the room, folding and unfolding items that didn’t need fixing, her hands restless, her shoulders tight. “Elena,” I called softly. “What’s wrong?” Elena froze, then turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing, Signora. I’m fine.” I wasn’t convinced. I tilted my head slightly. “That’s not true.” Elena hesitated, then sighed, her voice dropping. “I don’t feel good about this. About you going all the way to Russia with the baby… without me. You shouldn’t be alone, Signora. Baby Venera is still so small, and you—” Her voice broke. “You need help.” I smiled gently, though my chest tightened at the concern in Elena’s eyes. “I won’t be alone,” I said. “Alessandro will be with me.” “That’s not the same,” Elena replied quickly. “You know

Victor’s POV Today was La Camorra’s meeting. It happened once every three months—the kind of gathering that demanded the presence of every Don, every heir, every man who believed power answered to his name. Even Don Epifanio would be there, despite his open dislike for these meetings. Sometimes I wondered if Epifanio had been forced into La Camorra the same way fate had forced me into my own bloodline. Every time I looked at him, I saw it clearly written on the man’s face: I do not belong here. And more than once, I had wished Don Epifanio were my father. If that were the case, power would have come easily. Cleanly. Epifanio’s son, Lorenzo, had no interest in La Camorra, no hunger, no ambition. Taking his place would have been effortless. Unlike my own situation—bound to a father who clung to authority without earning it, a man who showed up only for profits and vanished when responsibility called. Don Epifanio attended meetings once every three months. Don Vittorio, my father,

Victor’s POV Ever since the last La Camorra meeting, the thought had refused to leave my mind—that Alessandro’s brother might be closer than everyone believed. The men had spoken loosely, carelessly, as if it were common knowledge, yet none of them had offered proof. I wasn’t sure what to believe, but instinct told me one thing: rumors in La Camorra never came from nothing. There were too many unanswered questions. Why had Alessandro and his brother grown so distant? I knew the basics—that they had different mothers, that neither of them had been raised by those women, that their father had kept both boys under his roof. As children, none of that had mattered. They had been inseparable then, running through halls too big for their bodies, playing with the other Don’s children—Rocco, Rebecca, Lorenzo, Laura. Ginevra had never been part of those games. Back then, power meant nothing to us; our fathers ruled, and we were free to be boys. But time had a way of scattering people. Some