Alle Kapitel von BOUND TO THE BLOOD KING: Kapitel 61 – Kapitel 70

The night was carved in flame before dawn could claim it.Bianca stood before the mountain stronghold that had become Serena and Raffaele’s last refuge, a fortress of concrete and blood, bristling with snipers and automated turrets. The ruins of the old border town sprawled around it like a graveyard for empires. The moon above was red, a wound that refused to close.Matteo’s voice came low through the comms. “Positions set. Perimeter mines in place. Signal when ready.”Bianca’s hand hovered over the detonator, the small black switch trembling between her fingers. The world was quiet enough that she could hear her own breath not fear, but precision. Around her, her soldiers waited for remnants of the Romano syndicate, mercenaries from every dark corner of the underworld, men and women who had followed Matteo into hell and found her standing at its gate.She pressed the switch.The earth split open with sound.Explosives hidden in the access tunnels erupted, sending sheets of flame and

The fire still hadn’t died when dawn came.The fortress was a skeleton against the bruised horizon. Red smoke curling upward like incense for the damned. Matteo and Bianca walked through the ruin without a word, the silence between them louder than the crack of rifles or the roar of engines that had filled the night before.Inside the war room, a chamber of stone and charred maps, the last serpent waited.Raffaele sat chained to the iron chair, head bowed, wrists bruised raw. His eyes fluttered open when Bianca entered. They were bloodshot but still sharp, still venomous.“So,” he rasped, lips splitting with a dry smile. “The Blood Queen comes to claim her final crown.”Matteo stood behind him, silent, a pistol at his side. He looked at Bianca, then back at the prisoner. “He’s yours,” he said. “Your choice.”Raffaele chuckled weakly. “Still letting your woman do the killing for you, Whitmore? How romantic.”Matteo didn’t answer. The air between them was thick with smoke and judgment.

The great hall still reeked faintly of smoke and rain from the war that had only just ended. Servants had scrubbed the marble floors until they gleamed like bone, but no polish could erase the scent of blood baked into stone. At the far end, the double doors opened with the heavy groan of history repeating itself.Lorenzo Moretti entered like a man born to walk through fire and make it look deliberate. He was tall, impossibly clean for a survivor of the blood wars, dressed in a charcoal suit that spoke fluent arrogance. His smile was a scar of confidence.“Donna Bianca Romano,” he greeted, bowing just enough to make it mockery. “Or should I say Your Grace, as the underworld now whispers?”Bianca’s lips curved, a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Whispering is safer than shouting, Lorenzo. Fewer people die of it.”He chuckled. “You haven’t changed.”“I’ve had no reason to.” She motioned for him to sit. “You requested this meeting.”“I did.” Lorenzo sat without permission, unbuttoning

The storm had passed, but Bianca still heard it in her bones.Days slipped by in half-light and silence. Matteo hadn’t returned, and though no one dared speak it aloud, the estate breathed differently without him like a body missing a vital organ. His scent had faded from the corridors, but not from her skin. His absence pressed on her like gravity.She sat behind her desk in the study one late afternoon, surrounded by unopened files and unfinished directives, when Lucia stepped in holding a single envelope. No seal. No insignia. Only Bianca’s name in handwriting she hadn’t seen in weeks.“From the southern vineyard,” Lucia said quietly.Bianca’s heart stopped.She dismissed Lucia with a nod and waited for the door to close before breaking the wax. The paper inside smelled faintly of gunpowder and rain Matteo’s scent. His handwriting was rougher than usual, uneven, like the words had cost him something.Bianca,If you’re reading this, it means I’ve done what I should’ve years ago in t

New York did not sleep that night but watched.From the top floor of the Romano high-rise, the city’s pulse throbbed below like a living beast sirens wailing in the distance, neon bleeding across rain-slick streets. Inside, silence reigned. Heavy. Holy. The kind of silence that comes before coronation or execution.Bianca stood before the mirror in her private chamber, dressed in black silk that clung like second skin, the neckline cut with ruthless precision. Lucia fastened the diamond clasp at her throat, fingers trembling slightly.“Once this begins,” Lucia whispered, “there’s no turning back.”Bianca met her reflection’s gaze. “There never was.”Behind her, the doors opened. Matteo entered without a word. His suit was midnight, his eyes darker still. For a moment, he simply looked at her, the woman who had rebuilt empires from ashes and exhaled.“You’re certain about this?” he asked quietly.“I was born certain,” Bianca said. Then, softer: “You’ll stand with me?”Matteo stepped cl