The king of Ashes のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 141 - チャプター 150

(Alessandro’s POV) I sat there, my arm a band of steel around her, holding her against my side as the silence of the library grew heavy, the air thick with the ghosts of the past. The oilskin package sat on the table between us, a dark, heavy thing that held all the answers, and all the poison, that had defined our lives. Isabella was trembling, her body pressed against mine, and I could feel the cold dread rolling off of her, a mirror of the cold, hard knot in my own stomach. Together. My hand, steady and sure, reached out and broke the old, brittle wax seal, the small cracking sound echoing in the quiet room. I unwrapped the oilskin, revealing a thick, black, leather-bound book, its cover worn and its pages yellowed with age, but it was perfectly preserved. It was not just a book, it was a tomb, a record of sins I was not sure I was ready to read. Tucked just inside the cover, I saw a folded, yellowed piece of paper, and on the front, written in a strong, elegant script, w

(Alessandro’s POV) The last of the ashes, the final, gray remnants of our fathers’ sins, floated up the chimney and disappeared into the night, and I pulled her closer to my side, her warmth a solid, living contrast to the cold ghosts we had just buried. The library was quiet, the air no longer heavy with secrets, but light, clear, and finally, truly peaceful. Isabella leaned her head against my shoulder, her body relaxed against mine, and I felt a profound sense of rightness, a calm I had never known in my entire, chaotic life. “You are right, mia regina,” I whispered against her mouth, my promise still echoing in the room, “Always. He can wait, let him rot in New York, surrounded by his own ghosts, because our future starts now.” I kissed her again, a deep, slow kiss that was not about passion, but about sealing a promise, a vow. It was a kiss that tasted like the end of a war, like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater for too long. When I pulled back, she wa

(Alessandro’s POV) The grand party at the Citadel raged for hours, a magnificent display of our new, absolute power, and the air was thick with the scent of a thousand white roses, the sound of music, and the low, respectful murmurs of men who knew, finally, who was in charge. I stood with Isabella, my wife, my queen, at the center of the room, her hand in mine, and I accepted the congratulations of Don Gallo, the fearful nods of Don Caruso, and the cold, dead stare of Lorenzo Falcone, a man who was now a ghost in my world. Isabella was magnificent, a vision of grace and strength, her smile warm, her eyes shining, and she was the perfect, beautiful counterpoint to the cold, dangerous king at her side. She was my light, my peace, and I had never been more proud. As the night finally began to wind down, long after midnight, when the last of the Dons had departed, leaving only the scent of champagne and flowers, Isabella leaned her head against my shoulder, a small, weary sigh es

(Isabella’s POV) I woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the soft, buttery light of a Parisian morning, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was, for the sheets felt like silk against my skin, and the room was vast and beautiful. And then it all came rushing back to me, the wedding, the jet, the candlelit bath, and the Eiffel Tower sparkling just for us, and I remembered, I was in Paris, I was on my honeymoon, and I was Mrs. Isabella De Luca. I stretched, a long, happy, contented stretch, my body feeling wonderfully sore, a delicious, private reminder of the night before, of the way Alessandro had loved me, slowly, tenderly, as if he was worshiping me. He was already gone from the bed, and I could hear his low, rumbling voice from the next room, speaking in quiet, fluent French on the phone, probably already handling business, already being a king, even here. I smiled, wrapping the silk sheet around my body, and I padded to the window, looking out at the beautiful, gray-blue

(Alessandro’s POV) I held her in my arms, my body still buried deep inside hers, the two of us breathless in the armchair, the city of Paris glittering outside the window, a silent, unmoving witness to our desperate, beautiful reunion. Her heart was hammering against my chest, a wild, frantic rhythm that matched my own, and I grinned into her kiss, my queen, my wife, my beautiful, insatiable Isabella. “Never better,” she whispered against my mouth, her lips swollen and red, and I groaned, because I was exactly the same, I was never better than when I was with her. I held her like that for a long moment, just feeling her, feeling the slick heat of her body, the tight, perfect clench of her muscles around me, and I knew, I knew I was not done, I was not even close to being done. “I love you,” I whispered, the words a rough, honest sound in the quiet room. “I love you,” she breathed back, her fingers tracing the tattoo on my chest. I pulled back, just enough to see her face