All Chapters of THE MAFIA'S FATAL ATTRACTION BOOK 2: A PRINCESS'S CHALLENGES: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

ArianeThe door to Tara's suite closes with a silken whisper. I remain motionless for a moment in the dimly lit hallway, the warmth of her embrace still imprinted on my shoulders, the fierce wisdom I attempted to impart to her resonating in the silence.She left with a lighter heart, I felt it. She has her answer. Her blessing. Not a naïve blank check, but a flag planted on the battlefield of her life by her general. Pride, in this instant, is a warm, soft blade piercing through me. My daughter. My stormy one, my strategist. She has chosen a volcano for a companion, and she has the shoulders to bear its heat. I shaped her for this.I return to our apartments, my high heels muffled by the thick Persian carpet. The solitude of the hallway is vast, but it is not empty. It is populated by all the choices I have made, all the sacrifices consented to arrive here, in this palace of marble and secrets.The door to our bedroom is ajar, a diffuse lamp light fi

 ArianeThe morning sun filters through the Venetian blinds of the dressing room, cutting blades of golden light across the rows of dark suits and shelves of polished shoes. The air smells of cedar and leather, a scent that has always evoked Auracio for me. His personal fortress, his daily armor.I came to find a scarf. A mundane, domestic gesture. The illusion of a normalcy that, since last night—after the shower, the embrace, the tender words murmured in the dark—seemed more solid than ever.His phone is lying conspicuously on the marble of the chest of drawers, next to his watch box. He must be at the stables, his morning ritual. A luminous notification has just lit up on the locked screen, pulsing softly.I should not have looked.But I did. Habit? Distracted curiosity? Because, in our world, information is a weapon, and screens are often its scabbard.The previewed message is from an unregistered number. But the

 ArianeThe marble staircase descends in a perfect curve towards the reception rooms. Each step on the polished stairs echoes strangely in my skull, like a heartbeat too slow, too conscious. Gravity seems to have changed; it pulls my bones towards the floor, weighted by the burden of what I know.I pass a large Venetian mirror. My reflection surprises me: ivory silk robe, hair styled with smooth perfection, posture erect. Nothing betrays the earthquake. Nothing suggests that the woman looking back at me saw, a few hours earlier, the foundations of her life collapse. The art of appearances. Our first language, our most essential armor. I don it now as a second skin, more necessary than ever.The scent of breakfast guides me: black coffee, toast, bitter apricot jam from our own orchards. And another scent, fainter, more expensive: Tara's perfume. Orange blossom and determination.I find her in the winter dining room, the one overlooking the Fre

ArianeThe private jet cuts through the Atlantic night, a wake of invisible stars trailing behind it. Chicago, with its cold skyscrapers and brutal energy, is already fading into a hazy past. Two days of meetings, business dinners, strategies worked out with Tara and Mike in their new offices. Two days of playing the advisor, the invested matriarch, the unwavering pillar.Two days of avoiding thinking about the photo. Two days of silencing the silent notification that vibrated in my skull at every moment of respite.In the hushed luxury of the cabin, I finally let the mask crack. Only the hum of the engines witnesses my fatigue, this deep weariness that goes beyond the physical. It is a wearing down of the soul. I have worn betrayal like a cloak of lead, concealed beneath smiles and firm handshakes.The plane lands at dawn on the property's private runway. The winter light of Piedmont is gray, sharp. The air smells of damp earth and burnt wood. Italy. My territory. My battlefield.The

ArianeThe click of the telephone echoes in the silence of the study like the cocking of a weapon. The order is given. Now, the mechanism will set itself in motion, oiled, silent, implacable.My first concrete action is financial. Seated at my mahogany desk, I open my computer and access the central portal for managing the family assets. Auracio, through negligence or blind trust, has maintained my full administrative access. I navigate to the section for secondary credit cards, those linked to operational accounts, the ones he uses for his discreet "whims." Three cards in the name of Elena Rossi appear. Two platinum, one black. Exorbitant limits for a twenty-six-year-old woman.My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment. This is not anger. This is surgery. I select the three cards, click the option "Suspend for suspected fraud," and confirm by entering the primary authorization code—my code. A confirmation message appears: Operation successful. Cards deactivated. Cardholders wil