บททั้งหมดของ His Savior Was Never My Sister: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The scent of Isabella’s perfume—something cloyingly sweet with gardenia—clung to the back of my throat like a sickness. From the shadowed alcove of the Rossi family’s downtown penthouse, I watched him. Nicholas.He moved with a new, unsettling purpose around her. It wasn’t just protection anymore; it was theater. A performance of devotion staged for an audience of one, and perhaps, for himself. Three days ago, it had been a bouquet of exotic, venomous-looking flowers delivered by a trembling courier from a cartel-owned jungle greenhouse. Yesterday, it was the sudden, brutal acquisition of a rival’s nightclub because Isabella had casually mentioned liking the chandelier.Today, it was the car.We were leaving a sit-down at a neutral restaurant. A screech of tires, a black sedan mounting the curb directly towards where Isabella stood, laughing at something Dominic said. It happened in a blur of calculated motion. Nicholas didn’t push her aside. He stepped into the path, taking the full,

The summons came not from my father, but from a black sedan with tinted windows that materialized outside my temporary apartment. Two men in impeccably tailored suits, their faces impassive, escorted me wordlessly. We didn’t drive to the Castellano compound. We drove into the hills, to a fortress of gray stone and wrought iron that overlooked the city like a disapproving patriarch. The Rossi stronghold.I was led through silent, marble-floored halls, past artifacts that spoke of old-world power and newer, bloodier acquisitions. The man waiting in the study wasn’t Nicholas. It was his grandfather, Don Vittorio Rossi. He looked like a hawk that had learned to wear a silk vest, his eyes missing nothing.“Sit, Miss Castellano.” His voice was dry, like pages turning in a forgotten ledger. He didn’t offer condolences or pleasantries. He slid a plain manila folder across the vast, empty desk. “My grandson, in his newfound and rather dramatic state of agitation, has ordered a comprehensive rev

The coastal highway was a blur of asphalt and guardrails, a gray smear against the churning steel of the ocean. Nicholas’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his foot heavy on the accelerator, pushing the powerful engine past its limit. The radio was silent, but the noise in his head was a deafening roar—the sound of security footage playing on a loop, a girl in a white dress saving a falcon, a lie unraveling with the quiet finality of a bone snapping.His men had finally pieced it together. Victoria was at the Moretti compound. Caleb Moretti had woken up. The wedding was today.The words were a litany beating against his skull. Today. Today. Today.He swerved around a slower car, tires screeching in protest. The ornate, wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate appeared in the distance, a stark silhouette against the pale sky. He didn’t slow down. He aimed the grille of the Mercedes at the precise spot between the central locking mechanism and slammed through. The impact was a

Silence followed my words, thick and heavy as the incense hanging in the chapel air. Nicholas stared at me, his confession hanging between us like a shattered chandelier. I saw the moment his desperation mutated into something darker, more unhinged. The raw plea in his eyes hardened into a terrible resolve.“You think this is a negotiation, Caleb?” Nicholas’s voice was low, but it carried, a venomous thread in the holy quiet. He didn’t look at the man beside me. His gaze was a brand on my skin. “You think your honor and your family’s backing is enough to keep her?”Caleb’s posture remained deceptively relaxed, but I felt the subtle shift in his arm linked with mine. A readiness. “This is her home now, Rossi. You’ve said your piece. Now leave.”A slow, ghastly smile touched Nicholas’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes, which were twin pools of stormy madness. “I brought a wedding gift.” His hand slid inside his tailored jacket. My breath hitched, a primal fear lancing through me. A gun? Wa

The silence in the replicated sunroom had a different quality now, thick and waiting. Nicholas stood before me, his face pale but resolute. On the glass table between us, he placed two items: the familiar, heavy leather cinta, and a slim, official-looking document.“This,” he said, his voice rough, “is a last will and testament. Notarized and binding. Everything I have, everything I will inherit, transfers to you, Victoria Castellano, upon my death. It is effective immediately.” He tapped the document. “And this,” his fingers brushed the braided whip, “is the instrument. I owe you a debt. Ninety-nine.”I didn’t touch either object. I leaned back in the wicker chair that was a hollow copy of my mother’s, the cushions too new, the scent wrong. “You think this settles accounts?” My voice was flat. “You think your empire is a currency that can purchase absolution?”“No.” The word was stark. “It’s a guarantee. A proof. I am placing my entire future, my family’s legacy, in your hands. Litera