All Chapters of A Virgin For The Three Mafia Bodyguards : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Chapter 32 Nina’s POV I stepped out of the mansion behind Isabela, my bare feet silent against the cool stone path leading to the helipad. The black chopper waited ahead like a sleek, predatory bird, its rotors still and blades gleaming under the morning sun. Two heavily armed bodyguards followed close behind us, tall and silent, their faces carved from stone, rifles slung across their chests. Their eyes constantly scanned every shadow and tree line. I kept my own gaze forward, but my senses stretched wide, absorbing every detail I had never been permitted to see before. The island unfolded beneath the rising light in breathtaking splendor: endless emerald hills rolling gently down to turquoise water, private docks lined with yachts worth more than entire countries, a fleet of matte-black SUVs arranged in perfect formation beside the estate’s towering white walls. The mansion itself rose like an impregnable fortress of marble and glass, complete with turrets, infinity pools t

Chapter 34 Nina’s POV Rain hammered the cobblestones like fists. My lungs screamed with every breath, but I kept running. The hotel’s yellow lights shrank behind me, swallowed by the storm. My bare feet slapped through freezing puddles, toes numb, heels raw from the rough stone. The diamond waist chain was gone—ripped from my hand by that sneering receptionist—and with it went my last fragile hope of money, a room, a plan. All I had left was motion. Stop, and the city would crush me. I darted down a narrow alley flanked by tall shuttered buildings. Water cascaded off rooftops in silver sheets, drenching me again and again. My black top clung like wet paint, outlining every rib, every bruise. Hair plastered across my eyes. I shoved it back with a trembling hand and kept going. Behind me, heavy footsteps pounded closer. Voices shouted in Italian—sharp, commanding. I risked a glance over my shoulder. Two policemen lumbered after me, bellies straining against dark uniforms, bla

Chapter 36 Nina’s POV The last toilet in the left wing finally gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light. I straightened, pressing the back of my wrist to my forehead. Sweat stung my eyes and trickled down my spine in slow, itchy rivers. My uniform—already oversized—clung to my skin like damp paper. The smell of bleach had soaked into my hair, my pores, my lungs. Every breath tasted chemical. My ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but I ignored it. Pain was just noise now. I gathered the mop, bucket, and gloves, carried them back to the supply room, and locked the door behind me. The corridor was quiet except for the distant hum of the museum’s air-conditioning system. I peeled off the uniform shirt first—wet fabric slapping against the concrete floor—then the pants. Standing in only my underwear, I shivered in the sudden chill. The bruises on my ribs looked darker under the flickering bulb, purple blooming into sickly yellow at the edges. I turned on the utility s

Chapter 38 Nina’s POV The iron poker whistled through the air again, striking Marco’s shoulder with a wet crack. Blood sprayed in a fine red mist, splattering the concrete floor and the hem of my oversized uniform pants. Marco howled, curling inward, but the chef raised the weapon once more, face twisted in protective fury. The old man’s arm trembled with the effort, veins bulging along his forearm, white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and the thin trickle of his own blood. “Stop!” I screamed, voice raw and breaking. “Please stop!” The chef hesitated for half a second long enough for Marco to groan and try to crawl away. But the biker was already moving. He shoved past me in a blur of black leather and motor oil scent, boots thudding heavy on the floor. His gloved hand shot out, seizing the chef’s wrist mid-swing. The poker clattered to the ground with a metallic clang that echoed down the corridor like a gunshot. The chef staggered back, gasping. “Let go!”The

Chapter 40 Nina’s POV The rotors kept thumping, relentless, like they were counting down to something I couldn’t stop. Isabela’s red silk dress snapped in the downdraft as she took one deliberate step toward me. Her heels clicked once on the tarmac sharp, accusing. Floodlights turned her skin porcelain-pale and her eyes black pits. “You disgusting bitch,” she hissed, voice slicing clean through the engine whine. “Do you know the trouble you made us go through? You should be locked in the dungeon and chained, forgotten, rotting.” Her hand flashed up, manicured nails gleaming like tiny knives. I flinched on instinct, shoulders hunching, already tasting the sting that was coming. It never landed. A gloved hand clamped around her wrist mid-swing was hard enough that the bones in her forearm shifted visibly under the skin. Isabela gasped, high and startled. “Don’t you dare,” the biker said. Low. Calm. Lethal. The first words I’d ever heard him speak. Isabela’s mouth