All Chapters of THE MAFIA'S PRICE: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

I felt the car slow before it stopped.The Mercedes rolled into a dim, echoing space, coughing out a thin trail of smoke before the engine finally died. The smell followed us, burnt oil, heat, metal, clinging to the air and my clothes. When the silence settled, it felt heavy, unnatural, broken only by Dante’s breathing.It is rough now. Uneven.My heart clenched.The doors opened almost immediately. Two armed figures approached, alert, and controlled. One of them, a woman, moved straight to Dante’s side. Her eyes were sharp, focused, missing nothing. She opened his door and began checking him with fast, practiced hands.Dante flinched.The sight of it hit me harder than the gunfire had.He leaned into her as she helped him out, his weight heavier than before, his handsome face pale under the harsh warehouse lights. Blood stained his suit despite everything I’d done. And still, still, his eyes searched for me.They locked onto mine.I stayed close as they moved him inside, my steps une

Muted voices drifted through the thin washroom door, low and blurred at first, like sounds carried through water. I paused, my fingers still wrapped around the edge of the sink, my breathing slowing as I listened.Dante’s voice cut through the haze instantly. Calm. Commanding. It's impossible to make a mistake. Hearing it grounded me for half a second, until I realized there was another voice with him. Sharp. Tense. Unfamiliar.I leaned closer to the door.The words came in fragments at first, pieces that didn’t quite connect. Then they slid together, forming something cold and unsettling.“Alexei’s moving on the northern docks, Liam, but it’s a feint,” Dante said. “He’s not after the arms. He’s after the shipment through the private courier. Code name: Nightingale.”My hand slipped from the faucet, dropping uselessly to my side.Nightingale.The name meant nothing to me, and that scared me more than if it had. I had heard Dante speak of weapons, territories, and money. This was diffe

The digital trace of Anton Volkov filled the laptop screen, a dense network of offshore accounts, encrypted messages, and carefully hidden transactions. It was the kind of deception built over years, quiet, patient, and deadly. Dante’s earlier words still lingered in the air: He will be dealt with. The promise was calm, unhurried, and absolute. There would be no mercy, only certainty.The dossier had already been handed over, its contents impossible to deny. Dante now lay resting, the doctor’s orders forcing stillness upon a man who thrived on control. But the hunt was not finished. The warehouse remained tense, every shadow heavy with the expectation of what was coming next.Dante’s phone lay untouched on the bedside table, its dark screen deceptively calm. The pistol he had given Alessia remained within reach, its weight a constant reminder that nothing about this moment was safe. Even resting felt dangerous. The laptop flickered again as the files were reopened, searches narrowing

Three Days LaterThree days passed in a strange, heavy quiet. No celebration. No mourning. No space for emotions to rise and be acknowledged. In Dante’s world, silence after bloodshed didn’t mean peace. It meant recalibration. It meant the board was being reset, pieces moved carefully while everyone else believed the game had paused.The city believed Dante had vanished into another safe house after Anton Volkov disappeared.Alexei’s informants confirmed it.Surveillance feeds confirmed it.Movement logs confirmed it.Everything aligned too perfectly.Because Dante never went there.Before dawn on the second day, he was moved quietly. No convoy. No familiar faces. No traceable routes. I was taken with him, just another shadow slipping through the cracks of the city. We arrived at a house that did not exist on paper, not on property records, not under shell companies, not even buried beneath false names.It was old money. Pre-empire. A place purchased decades ago under a name that had

Alexei Ivanov stalked the length of his cavernous warehouse office like a caged wolf, boots thudding against the cracked concrete floor. The air hung heavy, stale motor oil, old cigarette smoke, and the sour bite of his own growing frustration. Every few steps he flexed his fingers, as though imagining them wrapped around someone’s throat. London had become a festering wound lately, and the infection had a name: Dante Moretti.He stopped at the far wall, glaring at the bank of monitors that flickered with grainy feeds from half the city. “Keep eyes on that safe house,” he snapped over his shoulder, voice bouncing off the high rafters. “They think they’re clever, tucking Dante away like some wounded animal, hiding his little prize in plain sight. But I know where they are. Or at least…” His mouth twisted into something ugly. “…where they *should* be.”A low, bitter laugh escaped him. “Dante Moretti thinks these childish games, petty attacks, mind games, little explosions of chaos, are