All Chapters of The king of Ashes : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

(Alessandro’s POV) I woke with the sun. For the first time in my life, the morning light did not feel like an intrusion, a call to a day of battle, but like a promise. I was lying in my own bed, in my own home, and Isabella, my fiancée, the woman who was my entire world, was asleep in my arms. Her answer, a single, tearful, joyful "Yes," was a melody that had played in my mind all night, a beautiful song that had finally silenced the ghosts. I looked at the simple, elegant diamond ring on her finger, the one I had slipped on her hand last night. It sparkled in the soft morning light, a small, perfect star in the quiet universe of our bedroom. I had won. After all the blood, the lies, and the ashes, I had won. The war was over. I had my queen. And for the first time since I was a boy, I felt a sense of profound, unshakeable peace. She stirred in my arms, her honey-gold eyes fluttering open. A slow, beautiful, sleepy smile spread across her face when she saw me watching her. “

(Alessandro’s POV) The hours after my call to Don Gallo were a strange, quiet lull in a war that had been raging for what felt like a lifetime. The old Don had agreed to a meeting, his voice a low, gravelly rumble over the phone, full of a cautious curiosity. He had set the time and the place: his home, that evening. Alone. It was not a request; it was a summons. A test. I spent the rest of the day in a state of controlled, focused preparation. This was not a battle I could win with a gun. It was a battle of words, of wills, of ideologies. It was a fight for the soul of the Commission. As the sun began to set, casting long, dark shadows across the city, I began to get ready. I was not putting on tactical gear or body armor. I was putting on a suit, a dark, perfectly tailored piece of armor for a different kind of battlefield. Isabella was with me, a quiet, calming presence in the tense silence of our bedroom. She watched as I fastened my cufflinks, her expression a mix of lo

(Isabella’s POV) The night of the dinner arrived with a cold, electric tension. This was not a social call. It was a summons. A battle to be fought not with guns, but with smiles as sharp as knives and words as deadly as bullets. I stood before the mirror in our bedroom, looking at my reflection, and took a deep breath. I was nervous, my heart a fluttery, anxious thing in my chest. But underneath the nerves, a cold, hard resolve was beginning to form. They wanted to see the Rossi girl, the king’s weakness. I would show them his queen instead. Alessandro came up behind me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. He was already dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit that made him look like a beautiful, dangerous shadow. He looked at my reflection in the mirror, his golden eyes searching mine. “They will try to make you feel small tonight,” he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. “They will test you. They will try to get under your skin. Do not let them see any weakness.

(Alessandro’s POV) I held my queen in my arms, the victor of a battle of whispers. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that the war was about to be fought with blood. The morning after our dinner with the Falcones broke with a deceptive, beautiful peace. I woke to the scent of coffee and the soft sound of Isabella humming in the kitchen. I found her there, wearing one of my white shirts that was far too big for her, her beautiful hair a messy tangle, her feet bare on the cool marble floor. She looked so soft, so happy, so wonderfully normal. For a moment, the king, the Don, the monster of Chicago, simply vanished. I was just a man, watching the woman he loved make breakfast. “Good morning,” she said, her smile as bright and as warm as the morning sun streaming through the windows. “Good morning, my queen,” I replied, my voice a low, happy rumble. I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. I buried my f

(Alessandro’s POV) I stared at the screen, at the impossible, unbelievable image of her. The genocidal rage that had consumed me just moments before, the cold, dead certainty of a man with nothing left to lose, vanished in an instant. It was replaced by a fragile, terrifying, and overwhelmingly powerful hope that made my knees feel weak. The grainy traffic camera footage played on a loop. Her car pulling over. Her, my Isabella, alive and whole, calmly stepping out of the lead car and getting into the one behind it with Lucian. The lead car, now a decoy, pulling back into traffic, a Trojan horse carrying only a driver, on its way to a fiery, meaningless death. She wasn't in the car. The words were a silent, desperate prayer in my mind. A single, impossible thought that was at war with the image of the burning wreck that was seared into my soul. “Lucian,” I said, my voice a raw, broken thing. I turned to him. He was staring at the screen, his own face a mask of shocked disbe