The Mafia King’s Queen のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

FiorellaRocco's chest rose and fell against me, steady, guarding. His arm pressed down on my waist, his body enclosing me like the protection I never knew I wanted. To anyone else, I was off-limits. But here, in his arms, I could practically believe the falsehood that peace was possible.Almost.The shadows don't always come with bullets and blood. Occasionally, they come disguised in paper and pen. And tonight, that hard truth hit me harder than any threat outside our doors.The letter.I had pushed it aside weeks before, in the back of my mind . My father's last words to me, written in his own precise, commanding hand. Not words of comfort. Not words of pride. But a clause.A law that tied the empire I had fought, bled for, to marriage.If I didn’t wed, if I didn’t secure the D’Angelo name through union, then the board of families would have the right to contest my leadership. It’s such a crazy thing to do but I think he just wanted to see me settle down with someone and also for t

FiorellaThe sun filtered in through the top windows, warm and bright, the kind of light that painted everything as deceptively peaceful. I sat at my dressing table, fingers toying with the edges of the letter still hidden in the drawer. My face in the mirror was serene, untroubled, but inside, I was anything but. The letter's words had begun to claw into me, low and deep, until every beat was edged by the weight of what I had not told Rocco.The phone buzzed against the smooth wood, and I startled out of my trance. Rocco's name lit up on the screen. For an instant, I just seethed, heart racing, thumb hovering over the green button as if saying hello to him would make this secret more of a burden. Then I breathed and hit it."Hello, bella," his deep, low voice boomed out, still possessing the gravelly tone that gave away the fact he'd had barely any sleep."Hello," I muttered, trying to sound as normal as possible. "Busy already?"He gave a low hum, the sound of a door opening behind

FiorellaThe afternoon sun pours languidly in through the high windows of my study, bathing the edge of the mahogany desktop in a warm, amber light. Papers cover every surface, estates, contracts, letters, but they are not the focus of my attention. They've run together hours ago into a blur of indistinguishable pages.The only thing that is sharp in this moment is the letter folded on the edge of my coffee cup.The same letter that's been there since sunrise.I've read it so many times the ink has practically branded itself into my mind. The paragraphs, the signatures, the subtle threats scrawled in my dad's lawyer's careful handwriting. The lists of everything I inherited, and every condition that went along with them.Including the one that I've not even told Rocco about yet.I trace the rough edge of the paper with my finger, its weight. It isn't fear, exactly, that prevents me from telling him. Something less, something nearer. Guilt.Rocco is not an intimidating man. But this… t

FiorellaThe estate was unusually quiet that night. The kind of quiet that pressed against the walls and made every tick of the clock sound heavier. The garden lights outside filtered through the tall windows, scattering faint gold across the marble floor. I’d had the table set, candles, two plates, a bottle of wine I’d opened but hadn’t yet touched. Dinner had been set before Rocco’s car finally pulled through the gates.I could hear the noise of his engine before I could see him. Every sound that came from him was distinctive, the measured thump of the car door being closed, the sound of his footsteps echoing on the marble, firm and purposeful. Normally, that sound was comforting. Tonight, it was not.My heart would not stop pounding.When he stood in the doorway, he appeared to be the very embodiment of control , his jaw set, shoulders thrown back, his tie loose but his eyes impenetrable. The very tension on his face told me a thousand things I already knew."Rough day?" I tried, t

FiorellaThe house was too quiet.Not the kind of quiet that suggested peace,the kind that pressed up against your ribs and made every breath feel like an admission.I had not slept.I'd tried. I'd changed from the evening dress, drawn the curtains, even dimmed the lights. But no matter how many times I squirmed in the bedclothes, my mind kept replaying the same moment over and over again, the look on Rocco's face when he'd realized that I'd been holding something back from him.He'd hadn't shouted. He'd hadn't slammed a door or sworn at me. That made it worse.His composure was more incisive than rage. It weighed heavy, disappointment, restraint, that subtle patience of a man maintaining himself so he didn't fall apart on the one he cherished.I had hoped he would shout. To say something that equaled the storm chewing at my gut. But he'd just looked at me, said "I need air," and walked away.That was hours ago.It was five-thirty on the wall clock when I had given up on sleeping fina