All Chapters of The king of Ashes : Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

(Isabella’s POV) The Parisian night was cool and clear, the city a river of glittering lights below our penthouse, and the Eiffel Tower stood like a diamond-studded sentinel, a private monument just for us, its light spilling into the dark, quiet room. We were curled together on a sofa so large and soft it felt like a cloud, a cashmere blanket draped over our legs, and the soft, flickering light of an old, black-and-white movie played on the wall. It was a silly, romantic film, one I had picked, about a princess who ran away, and Alessandro, my dark, dangerous king, was watching it with me, his attention absolute, but I knew, I just knew, he was not watching the screen. I could feel the weight of his gaze, a warm, possessive, and endlessly loving touch, and I turned my head, my cheek resting on his chest, "You're not even watching the movie, are you?" His chest rumbled beneath my ear with a low, soft laugh, and his arms, which were wrapped securely around me, tightened, pull

(Alessandro’s POV) Paris was not a city, it was a dream, a beautiful, soft, and golden haze that had wrapped itself around us, and the days had melted into a perfect, timeless blur. We had been here for a week, but it felt like a single, wonderful, endless day, a life lived entirely in silk sheets, and quiet, sun-drenched cafes, and the constant, intoxicating taste of Isabella’s lips. We had barely left the penthouse, for we were lost, lost in each other, and lost in the new, beautiful, and powerful purpose we had found. We were trying for a family, a real one, a new beginning forged from the ashes of our past, and this simple, profound goal had changed everything, it made the air brighter, the food richer, and the nights, the nights were a sacred, endless, and breathtaking exploration of the woman who was my wife. I was watching her, my queen, as she stood on our private terrace, the setting sun painting her in shades of rose and gold, the city spread out before her like a gift

And then, the door clicked, and it slowly, slowly opened. Isabella stood there, wrapped in her white, silk robe, her dark hair a beautiful, messy tangle around her shoulders. She was pale, yes, she was definitely pale, but her eyes… her beautiful, honey-gold eyes were shining, shining with a light so bright, so powerful, that it lit up the entire, dark hallway, and she was crying, but it was not tears of sadness, it was tears of a profound, earth-shattering joy. She was holding something in her hand, a small, white plastic stick, and she held it out to me, her hand shaking so hard she could barely keep it steady. I just stared at it, my mind completely blank, frozen, I did not understand. My world was guns, and ledgers, and blood, I had no idea what this was, this small, strange object, and my mind, still trapped in the horror of the hospital, could only see it as a threat. “Angel, what is it?” I asked, my voice a desperate, pleading thing, “What’s wrong? Tell me, what do I ne

When we went out, which was rare, it was like a military operation. I had doubled the guard, doubled the armored cars, and I walked so close to her that I was practically carrying her. “Alessandro,” she sighed one afternoon, sitting in the newly renovated nursery, a room painted in soft, creamy yellows and whites. “I am pregnant, I am not invalid, I can pick up a book.” I snatched the book from her hand and placed it on the shelf, “It was on a high shelf, you could have stretched, you could have lost your balance.” She gave me a look that was half-amused and half-exasperated. “I was reaching for a paperback, not climbing Mount Everest.” I knelt in front of her chair, placing my hands on the swell of her stomach, which was now round and beautiful, a visible, tangible promise of our future. “I cannot take risks, Angel,” I whispered, feeling the baby kick against my palm, a strong, solid thud that made me smile every single time. “I lost one, I will not lose another, I will wra

I stared at her, my brain unable to comprehend it. Two. There were two. Isabella screamed again, her body arching, and I scrambled back to her side, gripping her hand, my own legs feeling suddenly watery. “Push, Angel!” I yelled, my voice cracking, “Just one more, please, just one more!” She sobbed, exhausted, drained, but she found a reserve of strength that I did not possess, and she pushed, she pushed with everything she had left. A second cry joined the first, a slightly softer, higher pitch, and the doctor lifted a second bundle, smaller than the first, but just as loud. “It’s a girl,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Twins, Alessandro. A boy and a girl.” I stood there, frozen, my hand still gripping Isabella’s. I looked at the nurse holding my son, a tiny, angry warrior. I looked at the doctor holding my daughter, a beautiful, screaming princess. I looked at Isabella, who was laughing and crying at the same time, her face glowing with a divine, exhausted light. T