บททั้งหมดของ BOUND TO THE BLOOD KING: บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

The world should have been quiet after the gala the night Matteo had kissed Bianca under the chandeliers, his hand claiming her jaw, his mouth claiming her future. But quiet was a luxury reserved for those without enemies.By dawn, the photographs were everywhere. Every tabloid, every whisper network, every underworld informant had the same story: Matteo Romano crowns his queen.Some called it romantic. Others called it weakness.In the Romano council chamber, the air was thick with smoke and resentment. Allies filled the room: dons, lieutenants, soldiers with money on the line. Every face reflected a different reaction, some awed, some calculating, some quietly seething.“She’s a distraction,” growled Don Vescari, one of Matteo’s longest allies. “A liability. We have enemies circling and you parade her like some trophy?”Matteo stood at the head of the table, perfectly composed in a black three-piece suit, his ring glinting against the polished wood.“You mistake a crown for a weakne

The estate was still bleeding from the attack when dawn broke, blood smeared on marble, glass crunching under boots, the air heavy with gunpowder.Bianca stood in the center of the war room, barefoot, still in the torn shirt Matteo had put on her last night, her hair wild around her face. Her pulse was steady now not because the danger had passed, but because something inside her had changed.One of the attackers had been captured alive. He sat bound to the chair in front of her, his face swollen, his nose crooked from Luca’s fist. Blood dripped from his mouth onto the floor in rhythmic taps.Matteo stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her. He hadn’t told her she needed to do this. He hadn’t even asked. Bianca had insisted.“Leave us,” she said quietly.Luca blinked. “Bianca ”“Leave,” she repeated, sharper this time.Matteo gave a single nod, and the room emptied. Only Matteo stayed, leaning against the wall in shadow, unreadable.Bianca crouched in front of the prisoner, close enoug

The chapel of the Romano estate was usually silent, cloaked in reverence and dust. It was Bianca’s place of refuge when the walls of the estate pressed too tight, when the whispers of loyalty and betrayal grew too loud. Tonight, after the echo of the gunshot outside, her steps had pulled her instinctively toward its stone sanctuary.The chapel smelled of candle wax and cold marble, its stained-glass windows glowing faintly in the moonlight. She traced the edge of the altar absently, her pulse still unsteady from the gunfire earlier.She did not hear him until it was too late.A flicker of movement in the corner. The hush of leather against stone.Bianca turned and the glint of steel flashed toward her throat.Her scream caught in her chest as instinct took over. She staggered back, snatching a heavy candlestick from the altar, swinging it wildly. The blade missed her by inches, sparking against the marble column. The man who held it was masked, his body lean, efficient, like death in

The Romano estate was no longer merely a fortress, it was a throne, and Bianca Vitale, once a pawn, now stood beside Matteo as something far more dangerous. His bride. His partner. His equal.Word had spread quickly. Too quickly. The blood wedding, whispered about in the corridors of Rome and Naples, painted them not as lovers but as a new dynasty, forged not in lace and vows, but in blood and fire.Tonight, they stood together at a marble banquet hall in Milan, a private gathering of allies and uneasy acquaintances. Men who commanded ports and banks, women who pulled threads of politics in shadows, dons whose hands were stained darker than Matteo’s. The chandeliers glistened, the air heavy with cigar smoke and perfume, yet beneath the music and polite applause, Bianca could feel it: suspicion. Resentment. Fear.Matteo thrived on it.He walked with her hand in his, leading her through the crowd like a king showing off his crown jewel. But she knew better she wasn’t his decoration. She

The engines roared like thunder, carrying them away from the estate, from the shattered summit, from Velasquez’s poisoned corpse sprawled across marble. Gunfire still echoed behind them, but inside the armored car, silence pressed harder than bullets.Bianca sat with her back against the leather, breath ragged, her gown rumpled like a fallen queen’s. She kept staring at her glass-stained hands, as if the shards of crystal and accusation still clung to her skin.Matteo’s hand was on hers firm, rough, grounding but his eyes refused to meet hers. They stared forward, storm-dark, jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack.“Matteo,” she whispered.Nothing.She tried again, voice sharper, breaking. “I didn’t do it.”Finally, his gaze cut to hers. Fire. Fury. Doubt. The mixture made her stomach twist.“I know what I saw,” Matteo said, low. His voice had no tremor, no hesitation, yet it carried a weight that nearly crushed her. “I know you didn’t lift a hand against Velasquez.”Her c