Semua Bab Claimed By My Ex’s Mafia Father in-law : Bab 191 - Bab 200

Chapter 191: Maternal InstinctsElena's POVThe riad in the Atlas Mountains felt like a different world from the blood-soaked estate in Florence. Pink stone walls absorbed the midday heat. Bougainvillea cascaded over every archway in violent pinks and purples. The private courtyard pool shimmered cobalt under the relentless sun. I sat on the edge of a cushioned daybed, bare feet dangling in the water, a notebook balanced on my lap. Nursing textbooks lay scattered around me. Maternal-fetal physiology. Pharmacology in pregnancy. I highlighted passages in yellow, made notes in the margins, tried to focus on the science instead of the quiet ache in my lower back.Eleven weeks. The baby was the size of a fig now. I could feel the subtle shift in my center of gravity, the way my breasts ached constantly, the faint metallic taste that lingered in my mouth no matter how much mint tea I drank. Morning sickness had mostly faded, replaced by a bone-deep tiredness that made even reading feel like

Chapter 193: New Beginnings Brian’s POVThe small stone church on the outskirts of Marrakech smelled of old incense and fresh plaster. Sunlight slanted through the narrow stained-glass windows, throwing red and blue diamonds across the wooden pews. I sat in the last row, elbows on my knees, staring at the simple wooden cross above the altar.Sonia sat beside me. Not touching. Not yet.She had changed in the last forty-eight hours. The sharp edges of her makeup were gone. No heavy eyeliner, no blood-red lipstick. Just pale skin, tired eyes, and hair pulled back in a loose knot. She wore jeans and one of my old flannel shirts—too big on her, sleeves rolled up past her wrists. She looked smaller. Younger. Almost like the girl I’d first met at the youth center three years ago, before Lucas, before the lies.She hadn’t spoken much since the divorce papers were signed yesterday. Just quiet thank-yous when I brought her coffee, when I drove her here. When I asked if she wanted to pray.Now

Chapter 195: The Letter’s Shadow Elena’s POVThe Florence compound smelled of rain-soaked cypress and fresh espresso when we returned from Essaouira. The private jet had landed at dawn; by mid-morning the sky had opened, drumming hard against the terracotta roof tiles. I sat cross-legged on the wide window seat in our bedroom, the envelope open on my lap.The photograph stared back at me.A young woman—twenty-three, maybe twenty-four—standing on a snowy Moscow sidewalk. Black wool coat buttoned to the throat. Dark hair spilling from a knit cap. Cheekbones sharp like mine. Eyes the same storm-gray as the ones I saw in the mirror every morning.My sister.Anya.The Cyrillic on the back was simple, almost polite:Your sister sends regards.
She is safe. For now.
Come to St. Petersburg or she dies bleeding.
—KMy fingers trembled as I traced the curve of her jaw in the photo. Twenty weeks pregnant, and suddenly the world felt too small to hold everything I carried: a daughter kicking insi

Chapter 197: Sister’s Echo Anya’s POVThe apartment on the Fontanka smelled of damp plaster and yesterday’s borscht. I kept the single bulb dim, curtains drawn even in daylight. St. Petersburg winter light was gray anyway—nothing worth letting in. I sat at the small wooden table, laptop open to a half-finished translation job: a dry academic paper on Pushkin’s exile. Words blurred on the screen. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.Three days ago I’d found the photo online. Not on purpose. A news aggregator had picked up a blurry image from some Italian tabloid site—Elena Rossi, pregnant, stepping off a yacht in Morocco. The caption called her the wife of a powerful businessman. Valerio something. But the face. The eyes. The same gray storm I saw every morning in the cracked bathroom mirror.I had zoomed in until pixels fractured. Same cheekbones. Same slight tilt to the mouth when she smiled. My mother’s features, split between us.Mother had never spoken of a sister. Only warnings. “Sta

Chapter 199: TheTrade Valerio’s POVI woke to silence that felt wrong.The hotel suite was too still. No soft breathing beside me. No warmth where Elena should have been. The sheets on her side were cool. I sat up fast, heart already hammering.“Elena?”No answer.I threw back the covers. Bare feet hit marble. Crossed to the bathroom. Empty. Walked the suite. Living area. Balcony doors locked from inside. Panic room door ajar.I saw the note on the bed first.White hotel stationery. Her handwriting—neat, hurried.Valerio—
I’m sorry.
I love you.
I love our daughter.
But I can’t let her die.
Forgive me.My vision tunneled.I crumpled the paper. Threw it. Grabbed my phone.Three missed calls from Luca. One text.She slipped the back stairs. Guards didn’t see her leave. Taxi plate captured on street cam. Heading south toward Obvodny district.I dressed in seconds. Black tactical gear. Glock. Spare mags. Knife. Comm earpiece.I burst into the corridor. Two guards snapped to attention.“Do