Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11 - Chapitre 20

​The morning sun hit the Mediterranean waves with a blinding, diamond-like glare, but the warmth did little to settle the restlessness in my bones. I stood on the bridge of the yacht, watching Malakai navigate the vessel with a practiced, lethal grace. He had traded his combat gear for a crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink that marked him as a man of the shadows.​"Where are we?" I asked, my voice still raspy from the night before. I felt different—sharper, as if the girl who used to flinch at her mother’s shadow had finally been buried at sea.​"A sanctuary," Malakai replied, his eyes never leaving the radar screen. "An island off the coast of Sicily that doesn't exist on any commercial map. It’s owned by a man who owes me his life twice over. We’ll be safe there while I coordinate our next move against the Council."​I walked over to him, the soft silk of my new robe—something he’d kept stashed in the cabin for a day that might never come—brushing against my ankle

The serenity of the island was an illusion, and we both knew it. By the third day, the air felt heavy, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. I was on the terrace, cleaning the soot from my palms after another session with the steel, when the silence of the cliffs was shattered by the rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum of a distant engine. ​It wasn't a boat. It was a helicopter, black and sleek, cresting the horizon like a hornet looking for a place to sting. ​"Malakai!" I called out, my voice tight. ​He emerged from the villa instantly. He didn't look surprised; he looked resolute. He was already carrying a long-range rifle, his movements fluid and calculated. He didn't even look at the sky; he looked at me. ​"Get inside, Leona. Down to the cellar. Now." ​"No," I said, the word coming out sharper than I expected. I felt that furious surge of rebellion in my gut. "You said we were partners. You said the bloodthirsty Council would come, and I’m not hiding in a h

The chandelier light shattered against the gold-leaf ceilings, but the warmth of the room felt like ice against my skin. Malakai and I moved through the crowd like a twin-edged blade, silent and incisive. Every bloodthirsty socialite in the room looked like a ghost to me—only two people mattered. ​"Wait for my signal," Malakai whispered, his voice a clandestine rasp against my ear. ​He didn't look at me; his focus was locked on the Chairman and Betty. They were moving toward a private balcony, away from the prying eyes of the Roman elite. This was our window. ​We followed them, slipping through the heavy velvet curtains just as the cool night air hit us. Betty was laughing—that high, tinkling sound that used to make me want to hide under my bed. ​"I'm telling you, Chairman," Betty said, her voice dripping with calculated greed. "Malakai is obsessed. He’s impulsive. He’ll take her to the Mediterranean and stay there until he runs out of lead. You have him cornered." ​"And the

The safe house was a hidden apartment in Trastevere, tucked behind a crumbling stone facade and an ivy-covered courtyard. Inside, it was all dark mahogany and shadows—a stark contrast to the glittering "bloodbath" we had just left behind at the hotel. ​Malakai slammed the heavy oak door and bolted it, his breathing heavy and erratic. He stripped off his charcoal jacket, revealing a white shirt that was now ruined by soot and a dark, spreading stain on his shoulder. ​"You’re hit," I gasped, my heart doing a furious jump in my chest. ​"It’s a scratch, Leona. No joke," he growled, though his jaw was clamped shut in a tight, stoic line. He leaned against the kitchen island, his eyes scanning the room with a restless intensity. "Check the tablet. Tell me the transfer went through." ​I fumbled with the encrypted device, my fingers still trembling from the adrenaline. "It’s there, Malakai. Fifty million. It’s... it’s more money than my greedy mother ever dreamed of." ​"It’s not jus

The silence of the safe house was shattered by a low, persistent hum. On the edge of the mahogany table, Malakai’s burner phone was vibrating, the screen glowing like a beacon in the dark room. ​I was still gasping, my skin slick with sweat and my heart performing a furious rhythm against my ribs. Malakai didn't pull away immediately; he stayed buried in me for a second longer, his forehead resting against mine as if he were trying to memorize the feeling of my skin. ​"Ignore it," I whispered, my voice thick with the visceral high of what we’d just done. ​"I can't," he groaned, his voice gutteral and raw. "That’s the emergency line for my offshore handler. No one has that number unless the world is ending." ​He pulled back, a "no joke" coldness hitting me where his heat had been just seconds before. He grabbed the phone, his face hardening as he looked at the caller ID. It wasn't a number—it was a string of letters: V-I