The Widow’s Blood Debt의 모든 챕터: 챕터 11 - 챕터 20

CHAPTER TWELVEPOV: Julian VaneThe shower water was scalding, turning the skin of my back a raw, angry red, but I didn't turn it down. I needed the heat. I needed it to burn away the phantom sensation of the warehouse explosion, the scent of Enzo’s betrayal, and the lingering chill of the boardroom where I had just condemned a man to the "thief’s basement."I stepped out of the steam and wiped the condensation from the mirror. The man looking back at me was a stranger. My eyes were harder, the blue iris rimmed with a cold, metallic gray. The scar on my temple was a jagged reminder that I was no longer the Golden Prince. I was a weapon in a tailored suit."The water is going to run cold if you stay in there any longer."Dante was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and slacks, looking more like a predator at rest than the head of a crime syndicate. His eyes traveled over my bare chest, lingering on the bruises that were finally begin

CHAPTER FOURTEENPOV: Julian VaneThe air in the grand dining hall was so thick with tension it felt like breathing through a wet shroud. This wasn’t like the gala; there were no cameras here, no polite society to maintain a facade of peace. This was a gathering of wolves.At the head of the long obsidian table sat Dante, looking every bit the King of the Underworld in a midnight-blue suit that made his eyes look like polished basalt. To his left, I sat in the seat of the consort, the auditor who had effectively dismantled the Russian threat.Across from us sat the Jimenez brothers: Mateo and Javier.They didn’t look like the local Mafia. They didn’t care for the quiet elegance of the Morettis. They wore vibrant, expensive shirts unbuttoned halfway down their chests, heavy gold chains, and watches that screamed of cartel wealth. Mateo, the elder, had a jagged scar running through his eyebrow, while Javier, the younger, couldn't keep his eyes off me. It wasn't a look of lust; it was th

CHAPTER SIXTEENPOV: Julian VaneThe air inside the 19th-century cathedral was chilled to the bone, smelling of ancient incense, damp stone, and the ozone of high-end electronics. It was a cavernous space where the whispers of the past seemed to watch us from the shadows of the vaulted ceiling.Dante walked beside me, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the cracked marble floor. He didn't look like a man walking into a trap; he looked like a man coming to collect a debt. He wore a long black overcoat that hid the tactical harness and the dual Berettas strapped to his chest. My own hand was buried in the pocket of my coat, my fingers white-knuckled around the remote detonator Dante had given me."Keep your eyes on Mateo," Dante whispered, his voice barely audible over the low hum of the wind whistling through the stained-glass windows. "Javier is a dog he’ll bark and bite, but Mateo is the one holding the leash. If he moves for his pocket, you drop to the floor.""I know the drill, D

CHAPTER EIGHTEENPOV: Julian VaneThe sunlight hitting the floor of the Moretti master suite was too bright, too clinical. It didn't belong in a world that had been bathed in fire and shadow only hours before.I sat at the edge of the bed, wrapped in a black silk robe, watching the news on a muted television. The headlines were a frantic crawl of "CATHEDRAL MASSACRE" and "TERROR IN THE STREETS." They showed aerial footage of the charred remains of the Jimenez sedans and the blackened stone of the church. The police were calling it a "clash between rival international cartels," carefully avoiding the name Moretti.Dante’s money was working. The narrative was being shaped."Turn it off," Dante’s voice rasped from behind me.I didn't turn. I felt the bed shift as he sat up. He had a bandage on his shoulder where a stray piece of glass had sliced him, but otherwise, he looked untouched by the carnage. He reached out, his hand sliding over the silk of my robe to rest on the small of my bac

CHAPTER TWENTYPOV: Julian VaneThe dining room of the Moretti estate felt larger than it had that morning, the high vaulted ceilings echoing with a silence that felt like a physical weight. The table was set with white linen, heavy silver, and a single bottle of red wine that looked like a pool of blood in the dim candlelight.Dante was already seated at the head, his jacket removed, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink on his forearms. He was reading a report, but the moment I entered, he set it aside. His eyes those deep, obsidian wells, tracked my movement with a predatory focus."You're late," he said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, the sound of a man who had been counting every second of my absence. "The kitchen had to restart the lamb.""I was clearing my head," I said, sliding into my chair. The wood creaked, a sharp sound in the quiet room. "The city feels... different after the Cathedral. I needed to see it for myself.""And did you?" he