Semua Bab My Ex-Fiancé’s Stepbrother Wants Me: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Author’s POVThe echoes of the riot still lingered in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Shattered glass crunched underfoot on the streets of the old district, and the acrid scent of tear gas and burning tires clung to every breath. For four long months, the people had risen against Vito and the iron grip of his mafia family. They had marched with crude signs and Molotov cocktails, chanting for justice, for freedom from the extortion, the protection rackets, and the bodies that occasionally washed up in the harbor.But in the end, it was futile, the civilians who longer matches the streets, they now remained in their homes, peered through cracked curtains, their faces pale with the dawning realization: there was nothing they could do except fear the ruthless mafia. Vito had won, not through negotiation or mercy, but through sheer, unrelenting dominance. They’re was nothing to be done, he was here to stay. Vito’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled a plume of smoke into the night. Th

Vera’s POVI stared at the flickering screen of my laptop, the cursor blinking mockingly on an empty email draft. My fingers hovered over the keys, but my chest felt like it was caving in.I had played my cards all wrong. Every calculated move, every sly smile, every night I spent wrapped around Benito none of it had been enough. I lost. Completely. And the worst part? I lost him to that bitch Zoya.Even now, the bitterness burned in my throat. Zoya hadn’t even wanted him. She was already with Vito, wrapped up in the power and danger that came with being with a Castellano. Yet Benito still looked at her like she was the only woman who existed. Like I was nothing but a temporary distraction. A mistake.I leaned back in my chair, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t keep chasing after Zoya, trying to ruin her life when she hadn’t done anything to deserve it, not really.The truth sat heavy in my stomach: I was the one who had stolen h

Benito’s POVI lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my fists clenched at my sides. I couldn’t accept it. I had lost Zoya to Vito, and the bastard made sure I knew it. Every single night he fucked her loud enough for me to hear through the thin wall, rubbing my defeat in my face.Tonight was the same. The sounds started slow but built fast.I heard Zoya’s sharp gasp as Vito pushed his thick cock into her. The wet slide of her pussy stretching around him filled the silence, followed by the steady slap of his hips meeting her ass. He was taking her deep, each thrust forcing a moan from her throat.I was letting my imagination run wild i kniw but this is how it’s playing in my head after all that pussy used to be mins.“Harder,” she breathed, voice breaking. Vito growled and picked up speed. The bed slammed against the wall in a brutal rhythm thud, thud, thud. I could hear every filthy detail: the slick squelch of her soaked cunt creaming on his shaft, the way her juices ma

Author's POV Although Vito had reassured her repeatedly that nothing would ever happen between him and Takara, Zoya still felt torn apart inside.She wandered through the vast Castellano mansion like a shadow in her own life. Every time she passed the guest wing, her stomach twisted. Takara moved through the house with effortless grace, as if she belonged there. And technically, she did. That truth gnawed at Zoya like a slow poison.That evening, after dinner, Zoya stood on the balcony of the master bedroom, staring out at the darkening gardens. The cool breeze brushed against her skin, but it did little to calm the storm in her chest. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling small and out of place for the first time since she had fallen in love with Vito.She felt like a mistress.Like a thief stealing another woman’s husband.Even though Vito had made it painfully clear that their marriage had been loveless and long over, the legal reality remained. Takara was still Mrs. Ca

**Takara's POV**I am not a woman who returns for sentiment. Love is a weakness I shed years ago in the smoke-filled rooms of my father's Yokohama compound where incense and gun oil mixed in the air, where daughters were bartered like fine blades and silence was the only currency that kept you safe.No. I came back to the Castellano estate for one reason only: power.The kind that could bend empires. The kind that would let me rise above the petty hierarchies of both the Italian mafia and the Yakuza, forging something new.Something mine. Vito Castellano was the key. Our legal marriage was the lock.The morning after my little heart-to-heart with the American mistress, I woke before dawn. I dressed carefully, a deep crimson blouse that hugged my figure like a second skin, paired with a tailored black skirt that whispered against my legs with every step. Power dressing, as the Westerners called it. In my world, appearance was the first weapon and I never went into battle unarmed.I h