All Chapters of The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The silence in the room isn't peaceful. It’s heavy, pressing against my eardrums like the air before a thunderstorm.Aureliano lowers me to the mattress. His hands linger on my waist for a second too long, his thumb pressing into my hip bone as if checking for a fracture."Put her down," Ciro says. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of its usual patience.Spadino is pacing near the window. He’s chewing on his thumbnail, his eyes darting between us. He looks like a wire pulled too tight."So that's it?" Spadino asks, his voice cracking. "We just... decide? We decide it's ours?""We don't decide," Aureliano says, straightening up. He looks at his brothers. "We claim.""But the blood—" Spadino starts."F##ck the blood," Ciro interrupts.He walks to the dresser. He picks up a shard of the broken mirror—a long, jagged dagger of glass. He tests the edge with his thumb. A bead of red appears instantly."The blood is the problem," Ciro says. "So we change the blood."He turns to them. He holds

The dining room table is covered in baby name books.Spadino bought them. He bought all of them. 1001 Names for Boys. The Book of Saints. Ancient Roman Heroes. They are stacked in teetering piles next to the bread basket."Maximum," Spadino says.He is holding a book open, pointing to a page with a breadstick."No," Aureliano says. He is cutting his steak with surgical precision. "It sounds like a gladiator.""Gladiators are cool," Spadino argues. "Strong. Powerful. Maximum Vitale. It sounds like a brand.""It sounds like a deodorant," Ciro rumbles.I laugh.It surprises me. The sound bubbles up from my chest, light and unexpected. It has been weeks since I laughed. Really laughed. Not a bitter chuckle or a sarcastic snort, but a genuine sound of amusement.The brothers stop. They look at me.They look at me like I just performed a magic trick."She likes it," Spadino grins. "See? Maximum.""I’m laughing because it’s terrible," I say. "If it’s a girl, are you going to call her Minima?

The nursery wallpaper is the color of a summer dawn—soft yellow, innocent, untainted. It’s a lie.Everything in this house is a lie, even the silence. Especially the silence.I run my palm over the textured paper, tracing the embossed pattern of small, silver stars. They’re sharp under my fingertips. One. Two. Three. Four.I count the stars in a square foot of wall space. I try to anchor myself to the present. To the weight in my womb. To the fact that I am still breathing.The smell of fresh paint and lavender sachets is supposed to be soothing. It’s meant to signal a beginning. But as I stand in the center of the room that used to be a storage closet, all I can smell is the underlying scent of the mansion.Old stone. Cold marble. And the metallic tang of gun oil that clings to the brothers like a second skin.The domestic bubble we’ve spent the last three days building is thin. I can feel the surface tension stretching. It’s ready to snap at the first vibration.The "Oath of Three"

One. Two. Three. Four.I count the rivets in the steel door again. I stopped at four hundred and twelve the first time. I’m starting over. It’s the only way to keep the walls from closing in.The silence in the Fortress Suite is heavy. It presses against my eardrums like deep water. The air scrubber hums a low, white noise that is meant to be soothing but sounds like a dying breath.I am alone.The knife Ciro gave me sits on my knee. The leather handle is warm from my grip. The blade is matte black, a void in the sterile white room.Suddenly, the red light above the door turns green.Clack. Hiss.The hydraulic seal disengages. The heavy steel groan of the hinges echoes in the small space.I stand up instantly. I grip the knife. Ciro told me to aim for the neck.The door swings open.It isn’t an enemy. It isn’t a Greco soldier covered in blood.It’s Aureliano.He stands in the doorway, framed by the dark mahogany of the outer hall. He looks impeccable. His suit is crisp, his tie perfec

The house is screaming.I huddle on the floor, my back pressed against the cold steel of the doorframe, knees pulled to my chest. The black knife is slippery in my sweat-slicked hand.The video feeds are dead, black squares staring back at me like empty eye sockets. But the audio... the audio is a nightmare broadcast.It amplifies everything. The acoustic dampening of the bunker keeps the outside world out, but the speakers bring the war right into the room.THUD-THUD-THUD.Heavy caliber automatic fire. It sounds like a jackhammer tearing up pavement. That’s the Grecos. They are spraying and praying, tearing through the expensive plaster and centuries-old tapestries of the East Wing.CRACK-POW. CRACK-POW.That’s different. Controlled. Precise. Heavy distinct shots that leave a ringing silence in their wake.That’s Ciro.I close my eyes, visualizing the layout of the mansion above my head. Based on the echo, they are in the Grand Hallway."LEFT FLANK! TWO ON THE STAIRS!"Spadino’s voic