บททั้งหมดของ The Cost Of Surrender : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Morning came quietly overseas. Antonio stood in the kitchen of his residence, jacket back on now, coffee untouched on the counter as he listened to Robert through his earpiece. The city beyond the windows moved with polite indifference. Traffic flowed. Shops opened. Life continued as if nothing had shifted. But something had. “No change overnight,” Robert said. “Luca’s still sedated. Stable for now.” Antonio nodded once. “Good.” “Nico’s narrowing it down,” Robert continued. “Two possible groups. Neither close enough to touch Luca without confidence.” Antonio turned slightly, resting his hand on the counter. “Confidence comes from access.” “Yes.” “And access comes from someone talking.” Robert was silent for a beat. “Agreed.” “Keep pressure light,” Antonio said. “I don’t want panic. I want mistakes.” He ended the call and finally lifted the coffee, taking a slow sip. Violence demanded patience. Rage could wait. Across the ocean, Minah moved through her morning r

By morning, it was already finished. Not publicly. Not dramatically. The kind of endings Antonio delivered rarely announced themselves. They showed up later in absences. In unanswered calls. In operations that stopped breathing without anyone knowing exactly when. The men who had attempted to take his territory were no longer a threat. That alone would have been enough. But Antonio needed one thing more. The man was brought to him just before dawn. There was no shouting. No resistance. Just the quiet sound of footsteps on stone and a door closing softly behind them. The room was bare except for a single chair pushed beneath a hanging light. The man’s breathing was already uneven. Antonio dismissed everyone else with a glance. The man swallowed. “I didn’t know it was yours.” Antonio removed his jacket slowly, folding it with care and placing it on the table. He loosened his cuffs, rolling his sleeves back with the same precision he used in negotiations and meetings. “You knew

I tell myself I’m only noticing details. That it’s natural, after a night like this, to become hyperaware of the man standing in my space. That the suit is just a suit. That his presence is only reassurance, nothing more. But my body knows better. The fabric of his jacket catches the light when he shifts, dark and impeccably cut, sculpted to him in a way that feels intentional rather than decorative. It hugs his shoulders, broad and unyielding, and tapers at his waist with a quiet authority that makes my breath hitch before I can stop it. He doesn’t wear the suit to impress. He wears it because it belongs to him. And somehow, that makes it intimate. My gaze lingers where it shouldn’t, tracing the line of his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath. He is still, but not passive. Everything about him feels coiled, contained, like strength held just beneath the surface. I imagine—unbidden—what it would be like if that restraint were ever directed at me. The thought sends a sl

The man stood just inside the office door, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Coffee didn’t look up from the screen in front of him. “Talk,” he said calmly. The man swallowed. “She wasn’t alone.” Coffee’s fingers paused on the glass in his hand. “Explain.” “I approached her like you asked,” the man continued, voice tight. “Parking structure. I barely touched her wrist.” That got Coffee’s attention. He leaned back slightly, eyes lifting. “Barely.” “I didn’t hurt her,” the man said quickly. “I didn’t get the chance.” Coffee’s jaw tightened. “Why.” “There were men,” he said. “Three of them. Maybe four. They moved in immediately. Professional. Quiet. They didn’t shout. They didn’t threaten. They just… removed me.” Coffee stared at him. “They told me to walk away,” the man added. “Said she was protected.” Silence stretched. “Protected,” Coffee repeated softly. “Yes.” Coffee stood and crossed to the bar without another word. He poured himself a glass of whisk

Coffee POV The problem with men like Antonio is that they mistake intimidation for intelligence. I know his type. Built on violence. Sustained by fear. He believes proximity equals power, that standing in a doorway makes him significant. That guarding a woman makes her loyal. It’s almost charming in its simplicity. I straighten my cuffs and glance at my reflection in the glass. Composed. Unshaken. Men like him rage when they feel threatened. I calculate. That’s why I always win in the end. Emotion clouds judgment. Structure clarifies it. She’ll come back. Not because she wants to. Because reality will corner her. I know Minah better than anyone ever will. I know how she doubts herself late at night. How she second guesses her strength when things get quiet. How safety scares her almost as much as pain does, because safety asks her to trust. And trust was always mine. The thought of her with him returns again, sharper this time. Antonio’s hands where mine once were