THE MAFIA'S FATAL ATTRACTION BOOK 2: A PRINCESS'S CHALLENGES のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

MikeDay breaks, filtering through the bars on the window. I haven't slept. I meditated. I transformed rage into strategy. Hatred into calculation.Making her fall in love. It's the most twisted, the most cruel plan I can conceive. She who thinks she controls everything, possesses everything. I'm going to offer her the only thing she can't buy, the only thing beyond her grasp: my soul, in appearance. I'm going to give her the illusion that she has won not only my body on its knees, but also my heart.And when she is drunk on this love, when she is vulnerable, confident, convinced of my absolute submission… I will break everything. I will tear her toy from her heart and trample it before her. It will be a pain far deeper than humiliation. It will be the demolition of her world.The bedroom door opens. Lorenzo enters, wary.—Get up. Madame wants to see you.I get up, slowly. I don't look at him with defiance, but with a studied resignation. I follow him into the hallway, dragging my fee

MikeThe party is a glittering whirlwind of pretenses and whispered truths. I play my role to perfection, shaking hands, exchanging knowing glances, signing the contracts placed before me on a lectern with the pomp of a monarch. Each signature is a stamp on my power, sealed under the gaze of the one who believes she shares its source.I feel Tara's eyes on me, constant, burning. She is radiant. She is the king's wife, the goddess of the temple. She drinks in the homage, savors the envy of the other women. She believes she is reaching the goal.And I, I nurture her illusion. A brush against her back in passing. A look laden with possessive pride when she speaks. A word in her ear that makes her shiver. I build the trap with the delicacy of a goldsmith and the patience of a predator.The night advances. The crowd begins to disperse, drunk on champagne and spectacle. The energy changes, becomes more intimate, heavier. I guide her gently, firmly, away from pr

TaraThe Chicago sun is a magnificent tyrant. It blazes down on the penthouse terrace, makes the steel of the skyscrapers sparkle, and transforms the infinity pool into a blinding mirror. After breakfast, a tense silence where Mike's words still echoed, I decided to treat myself to this bath of light.I settle onto a lounger near the pool. The swimsuit is a simple piece of black fabric, a second skin that leaves little to the imagination. I chose it for that reason. I slowly apply oil to my legs, my arms, my stomach, a sensual and calculated ritual.I don't have to wait long.Lorenzo is stationed near the French door, his gaze fixed, but I see his eye move, once, twice, betraying the path it travels over my body. Another guard, younger, on the corner balcony, blushes and turns his head away before risking another glance. A third, down below on a service terrace, has stopped dead, a crate in his hand, mouth agape.A slow, victorious smile stretches

TaraPeace is a sweet, heavy lie in the darkened room. His arm rests on my waist, a possessive and familiar weight. I slip out of his embrace, my bare feet meeting the coolness of the marble floor. My body aches, everywhere, a gentle reminder of the battle, the defeat, the surrender. But strangely, a strange calm inhabits me.He cares for me. He must care for me. Such raw anger, such savage jealousy… that cannot come from nowhere. It must conceal something deeper, more fragile. The idea is a balm on my wounded pride, a star twinkling in the chaos of our senses.I head toward the bathroom, letting the harsh light flood my retinas. I stand before the immense mirror, above the double sinks. And I look at myself.My hair is a disordered canvas of threads of gold and ebony. My lips are full, slightly bruised. My eyes shine with a febrile brightness, dark-circled but victorious. A flush marks my skin where his hands, his mouth, have laid claim.I

TaraThe dress is a knife slash. A simple sheath of black silk, without any ornamentation, hugging my curves like a second skin, but without lasciviousness. It is severe, almost funereal. I have swept my hair back, a bun so tight it pulls at the skin of my temples. My only jewelry: diamond earrings, so discreet they might be frozen tears. Makeup is absent, except for a line of kohl that elongates my eyes, making them colder, more piercing. I am not a wife. I am a verdict.Michael enters the bedroom, dressed in his social uniform: a dark, tailored suit that screams power and control. His gaze sweeps over me, from head to toe. I see the slight frown, the confusion before this calculated austerity. He expected provocation, seduction. He finds a weapon."Ready?" he says, his voice neutral."More than ever," I say, turning toward him a gaze that does not smile.In the car, the silence is a block of ice between us. He looks out the window, the New York night scrolling past in streaks of lig