Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 41 - Chapitre 50

The first thing I notice is the ceiling.Not carved wood. Not frescoes. Just cracked white paint with a water stain in the corner that looks vaguely like South America.The second thing is the noise.Honking. Someone yelling in rapid‑fire Spanish. A baby crying. A dog barking at all of it like it’s personal.I blink, disoriented.The bed under me is too soft in the middle, too hard at the edges. The sheet smells like cheap detergent instead of whatever subtle thing the villa used that cost more per ounce than my old rent.This is not Sicily.This is not his bed.No armed guards outside. No Luca’s voice on a radio. Just city noise.The realization hits like cold water.I did it.I left.The room is small—bed, narrow wardrobe, a rickety table under a barred window. A kitchenette the size of a tour bus bathroom sits in one corner, two burners and a sink, and a mini‑fridge that hums like it might die mid‑day.My bag is on the chair where I dropped it, slumped like it made the flight too.

The conference room smells like money and fear.It always has.Today, the fear is louder.“Your timing is unfortunate, Moretti,” a banker says, voice smooth and brittle. “With all these…articles, some of our board are hesitant to extend further credit—”Dante cuts him off with a look.Not raised voice.Not slammed fist.Just that flat, cold stare he perfected years ago in rooms like this.“Your board,” he says softly, “was happy enough to take my money when you needed an anonymous hand to save your precious shipping line three winters ago. They didn’t ask many questions when I made the D’Angelo problem skip their ports. Now they’re squeamish because a few reporters learned how to spell my name?”A bead of sweat slides down the banker’s temple.“With respect,” he says, “there’s a difference between silent partnership and…public scrutiny.”“The only difference,” Dante says, “is that now you’re afraid your wife will Google me.”He leans back, fingers drumming once on polished wood.Stree

The first thing I notice is the ceiling.Again.This one I know by heart—dark beams, recessed lights, the faint shadow of the chandelier in the hallway beyond.My head pounds.My shoulder throbs where that gloved hand clamped down. My palms sting when I flex them; tiny cuts gripe against the cool sheet.Villa linens.His bed.Back in hell.I bolt upright too fast.The room tilts, slides, and rights itself.I’m in one of the guest suites, not his room. The curtains are half‑drawn; late morning light seeps in, painting the edges of the furniture.Someone put me in a fresh T‑shirt. One of mine, at least. My jeans are folded on the chair. Bandages wrap my palms.I rip at them on reflex.The door swings open.“Don’t,” a familiar voice says.Dante.He steps in and shuts the door behind him. No entourage. No, Luca. Just him, filling the doorway in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, jacket thrown over his arm.He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.Eyes red‑rimmed. Jaw s

By the next morning, the internet has turned the blurry street brawl into a full‑blown saga.I don’t have to look to know.Mia does it for me.She barrels into my room, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, eyes already fierce.“Brace yourself,” she says, dropping the tablet on the bed.“I thought we did that yesterday,” I mutter.“That was the warm‑up,” she says. “This is the part where they take the knife and twist.”I drag the tablet closer.New headline.> **LUNA VALENTINE CAUGHT IN MAFIA SHOOTOUT?** > *Video Shows ‘Missing’ Star in Violent Clash Linked to Moretti–D’Angelo Feud*Under it, several stills from the phone video.My figure blurred on the ground.Masked men.An SUV profile that looks suspiciously like the ones in Dante’s fleet catalogs.Someone circled my face in red and put a question mark over it in one of the aggregated clips.Helpful.“Somehow they made it worse,” I say.“Give them time. They’re creative,” Mia says. “Scroll.”I do.> …sources claim Valentine ha

The helicopters don’t leave.By late afternoon, they’ve settled into a pattern—circling, zooming, backing off just enough to refuel and return. The press at the gates has turned into a camp: cameras on tripods, reporters in different shades of outrage, fans in homemade shirts, and hastily printed signs.Even from inside the villa, I can feel the hum of it.Like a beehive pressed against the walls.“Status?” Dante asks.We’re in his office with the curtains drawn, the outside world reduced to muffled noise and a flickering live feed on one of his monitors.Mia has three devices open, fingers flying.“Networks frothing,” she says. “#FreeLuna and #MrsMoretti are both trending. Police are trying to keep the vans from blocking the road. Fans chanting your names like a cursed duet.”She swivels the tablet so we can see one live shot.A reporter stands in front of the gates, hair perfect, expression grave.> “…tensions mounting as supporters demand to see any sign that Luna Valentine is safe