บททั้งหมดของ The Widow’s Blood Debt: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

CHAPTER ONEJulian POV"Sign it, or I’ll let my brothers finish what they started. You aren't a man anymore, Julian. You're an asset."The voice was like grinding stones, cold and immovable. I looked up, or at least I tried. My neck felt threaded with hot wire, and my left eye was swollen nearly shut. Blood trickled from a split lip, dripping onto the pristine white silk of a shirt that had cost more than a common man’s monthly rent. Now it was just a rag, stained with the metallic tang of iron, a sharp, copper reminder of the last three hours of my life.My hands were tied behind a rusted metal chair, the hemp rope biting into my wrists every time I tried to flex my fingers. The basement smelled of damp concrete, old oil, and the underlying rot of a place built to break spirits. Every breath I took felt like inhaling sandpaper.Before me stood Dante "The Butcher" Moretti.He was a ghost story told in the shipping lanes, a nightmare parents used to keep their rebellious sons in line.

CHAPTER THREEDante POV"He looks as if he’s walking to his own execution, Dante. Are you sure this is a merger and not a funeral?"My younger brother, Enzo, leaned against the stone pillar of the private chapel, a jagged smirk playing on his scarred lips. He was fiddling with a silver lighter, the clack-clack of the metal lid echoing off the vaulted ceilings."He’s a Vane," I replied, adjusting the cufflinks of my tuxedo. My hands were steady, but inside, a strange, dark electricity was humming. "They’ve always had a flair for the dramatic. It doesn't matter how he looks. It only matters that he signs the book.""The council is restless," Enzo lowered his voice, the playfulness vanishing. "They think you're getting soft. They think a bullet to the Prince’s head would have sent a clearer message than a ring on his finger. If he tries anything tonight, I won’t wait for your order to end him.""You’ll touch him when I tell you to, and not a second before," I snapped, my voice dropping i

CHAPTER FIVEDante POVI watched Julian through the vanity mirror as he struggled with the silk tie I’d sent to his room. It was Moretti crimson, the color of fresh arterial spray, a shade that declared war on the shadows of this house. He looked at the fabric with such raw loathing that I half-expected him to use it to hang himself before we reached the car.He was a masterpiece of controlled rage. The "Golden Prince" had been replaced by something sharper, leaner, and infinitely more dangerous. The bruises on his face had faded to pale yellow, and the tailored black suit clung to his frame like a second skin, accentuating the narrowness of his waist and the defiant set of his shoulders."Let me," I said, stepping into the room.He stiffened, his shoulders drawing back as I moved into his space. The air between us crackled, thick with the scent of his expensive soap and the heat of his anger. I could see his fingers fumbling with the knot, his knuckles white."I can do it myself," he

CHAPTER SEVENPOV: Dante MorettiThe East End docks were the lungs of this city. They breathed in contraband and breathed out cold, hard cash. For three generations, the Vanes had owned every crane, every shipping container, and every crooked customs agent on these piers. Tonight, I was going to cut those lungs out.I glanced at Julian in the passenger seat of the armoured SUV. He was silent, his gaze fixed on the industrial skyline. He was wearing the black tactical gear I’d ordered for him, no more silk, no more gold. He looked like a shadow. The silver Moretti ring on his finger caught the passing streetlights, a constant reminder of the vow he’d signed in blood."You’re quiet," I said, my hands steady on the wheel."I’m thinking about the last time I was here," Julian replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "It was my father's birthday. Leo and Marcus stood right there on Pier 47 and promised him they would keep the family legacy alive. They were toasted with champagne. Tonight, I’m

CHAPTER NINEPOV: Dante MorettiThe Council meeting was a farce of old men clinging to dying traditions. I sat in the leather armchair, my fingers drumming a rhythmic, lethal beat against the mahogany table as the head of the Irish Syndicate droned on about territory boundaries.My phone vibrated in my pocket. A single text from a ghost line I used only for Julian’s tracking chip.Signal Lost: South Side Industrial.I stood up so abruptly the heavy chair scraped against the floor like a scream. The room went silent. Twelve heads of the most dangerous families in the city looked at me."Moretti?" the Council Chairman asked, his brow furrowed. "We haven't finished the vote.""The vote is irrelevant," I said, my voice coming from a place of cold, abyssal shadow. "One of my men has forgotten his place. And when I find him, I’m going to remind him why they call me the Butcher."I didn't wait for a response. I walked out, the air in the hallway feeling too thin, too hot. I called Enzo.Stra