บททั้งหมดของ The Debt of the Widow: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Chapter 11: The Vulnerable Butcher"Don’t look at me with pity, Bianca. I can’t stand it."Dante stood by the edge of the bed, his back to me. The moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. Slowly, with hands that actually trembled, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off his shoulders.The fabric pooled at his feet.I stopped breathing. The jagged, silvered topography of his trauma was worse than the grainy photo in the file. It wasn't just a scar; it was a map of systematic cruelty. The skin was puckered and white, a violent lattice-work that stretched from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. It looked like he had been flayed and stitched back together by a blind man."They used to call it the 'Angel’s Wing,'" he rasped, his voice barely a thread in the dark. "Because they said the pain would make me fly. I never flew. I just learned how to crawl through the blood."I stepped off the bed. My bare feet made no sound

Chapter 13: The High Judge’s SignalThe delivery boy didn't look up from his clipboard. He just shoved a cold, grease-stained cardboard box into my hands and grunted."Pizza for B," he muttered.I stood in the drafty foyer, the weight of the box warming my palms. Dante’s guards watched from the monitors, their eyes bored and distant. They saw a trophy wife ordering a midnight snack. They didn't see the way my thumb traced the underside of the lid, feeling for the familiar, sharp edge of a micro-SD card taped near the corner.I retreated to my room, the lock clicking shut behind me. I didn't open the box. I took it to the bathroom and turned the shower on high, letting the steam fill the room, a white veil against the cameras.I peeled back the tape. The card was small, black, and carried the weight of a guillotine.I slid it into the hidden tablet. A single line of text burned against the screen in a harsh, neon green:Midnight. The North Gate. Bring the ledger or your father’s heart

Chapter 15: The Widow’s Second Wedding"White is for the innocent, Bianca. You’re wearing the blood I spilled for you."Dante’s voice rumbled behind me as the seamstress tightened the corset. I stared at my reflection. The dress wasn't the virginal silk my father would have chosen. It was a heavy, structured ivory that caught the light like polished bone, but the underskirt was a deep, bruised crimson. Every time I moved, a flash of red peeked out—a secret wound trailing behind me.I gripped the edge of the vanity. My knuckles were pale, skin stretched tight over the bone. "It’s perfect, Dante. It looks like a warning.""It is," he said. He stepped closer, his heavy hands resting on my bare shoulders. He didn't look at the dress. He looked at my throat, at the pulse jumping beneath the skin. "Tonight, the city stops laughing at the girl who was sold. They bow to the woman who conquered the Butcher."I turned, my train hissing against the floor. I reached up and straightened his tie, m

"You really thought it’d be that easy? One little drop and Daddy goes night-night?"Dante’s voice didn't just break the silence; it shredded it. He stood by the massive oak doors of the bridal suite, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He wasn't stumbling. The sedative I’d watched him swallow should have flattened a bull by now, but he was steady. Lethal."Dante, I don't know what you're talking about." The lie felt thin, like paper catching fire. I backed away, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the polished floorboards."The hell you don't." He reached out and gripped the brass handle, twisting the deadbolt with a final, heavy thud. The sound echoed in my chest. He tossed the key—not onto the nightstand, but down his own throat, swallowing it with a jagged grin that made my blood turn to slush. "The toast, Bianca. You looked so hopeful. It almost broke my heart. Almost."He moved. I didn't see it coming, just felt the air sh

"Open the damn thing, Bianca. You’ve been staring at that floorboard for ten minutes."The voice wasn't Dante’s. It was the ghost of my own cowardice echoing in the empty study. Dante was gone—hunting the Judge, hunting my father, hunting the shadows he called justice. I stood alone over the heavy mahogany desk. My fingers brushed the brass key hidden in the pocket of my robe. The metal was cold.I knelt. The rug was rough under my knees. I pushed back the heavy corner of the Persian carpet, revealing the iron plate of the floor safe. My pulse thudded in my fingertips as I slid the key into the lock.Click.The mechanism groaned. I hauled the heavy door back. The air that puffed out smelled of old paper and gun oil. No gold bars. No bundles of cash. Just a single, weathered manila envelope and a leather-bound ledger.I grabbed the envelope. My thumb tore the seal, the paper jagged and sharp. A single photograph slid out."No way," I whispered. The air in the room suddenly felt thin.I