All Chapters of Taken by my stepfathers: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Daniel’s POVThe boardroom on the forty-fifth floor of the Midtown high-rise smelled of old parchment, expensive leather, and pure, suffocating panic.A heavy mahogany table stretched across the center of the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the Manhattan skyline. Around it sat twelve men—the remaining executives, legal sharks, and old-school capos of the Moretti organization.They were wearing five-thousand-dollar suits, but under the fluorescent lights, they looked like sheep waiting for the blade. They knew the rumors from the Bronx. They knew Moretti was dead. What they didn't know was who was stepping into the vacuum.The heavy oak doors clicked open.I walked in first, stepping aside to hold the door. Silas followed, his massive frame completely blocking the exit, his arms crossed over a tailored black suit that barely contained his shoulders. He didn't look at the board; he looked at the room, establishing the perimeter like a wolf guarding a

Eden’s POVThe auto-body shop had just been a staging area. Before the canvas hood was shoved back over my head, I was dragged out of the footwell and thrown into a different car. When the fabric was finally ripped off my face a second time, I wasn't in a rusty garage.I was sitting in a plush leather armchair in a penthouse that rivaled the Schmidts' mansion. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the glittering expanse of the East River. The room was a monument to old-school Italian luxury—white marble floors, heavy velvet drapes, and a massive, low-profile silk bed dominating the center of the room.Standing in front of me were the three remaining Moretti brothers, the cousins of the Don I had buried in the Bronx.They looked like a darker, crueler mirror image of the men I left behind. Marco, the oldest, was dressed in a pristine charcoal suit, his dark hair slicked back. Next to him stood Sandro, lean and restless, his fingers nervously playing with a heavy gold lighter. And then ther

Silas’s POVThe rain over Queens was heavy, black, and smelled like burning rubber.I didn't use a gun. A gun is too clean. It leaves too much distance between the hunter and the prey. When someone takes what belongs to the Schmidt family—when someone puts their filthy hands on my little princess—I want to feel their bones break. I want to feel the exact moment the light leaves their eyes.They call me the Butcher of Berlin. It’s a title I earned in the underground meat-packing districts of Germany, clearing out entire syndicates with nothing but a rusted cleaver and an iron will. New York thought they had seen monsters before we arrived. They had no fucking idea.Right now, a private underground gambling den in Astoria was painted entirely in crimson.Four Moretti soldiers were sprawled across the poker tables, their throats crushed, their bodies broken into unnatural shapes. I stood in the center of the room, my tailored black suit jacket discarded, my white shirt soaked through wit

Eden’s POVThe luxury high-rise at Sutton Place was fading into the black, rain-slicked Manhattan skyline behind us. I didn't drive. I didn't need to. After stepping out of the secure elevator cab into the quiet, marble-lined side exit of the tower, I had simply used Marco’s phone—the one I’d slipped from his jacket pocket before slamming his face into the mahogany desk—to call a private town car service registered under a Moretti shell company. The driver hadn't asked questions when he saw the heavy silver signet ring on my finger, even if my custom charcoal suit was torn at the shoulder and stained with his boss's blood.Mia sat beside me in the back seat, her hands gripped tightly in her lap, her blue eyes wide as she stared out at the passing streetlights. She was trembling, but the terror was gone, replaced by a quiet, reverent awe. She looked at me not as a fellow captive but as a savior."Where are we going?" she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the smooth purr of the

Eden’s POVThe heavy double doors of the master suite were unlatched, slightly ajar. I pushed them open with a soft nudge, stepping over the threshold into the dim, ruined room. The chaos Daniel had described was frozen in place—the shattered velvet armchair near the marble fireplace, the overturned nightstands, and the shredded silk drapes hanging like broken banners in the dark.But the room wasn't quiet.In the center of the destruction, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his elbows resting on his knees, was Silas. A single, amber glow cut through the shadows near his face. The sharp, acrid scent of tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air.Silas never smoked. In all the months I had lived under the Schmidt roof, surrounded by their violence and their secrets, I had never seen him touch a cigarette. He only reached for it when he was completely cornered by his own mind, using the bitter smoke to mask a vulnerability he couldn't control. Right now, I could tell he was smoking just