Todos los capítulos de Married to the ruthless Billionaire Mafia: Capítulo 101 - Capítulo 110

The docks slept under fog. Heavy mist rolled over the water, dimming the shine of ships that lined the Sicily port. Diesel fumes and salt filled the air. Dante stood by the edge, coat drawn against the chill, watching crates being loaded under the cover of night.Enzo stepped beside him. “Everything’s ready, boss. The papers have been switched.”Dante’s gaze stayed on the crates. “Good. When Vico gets here, make him wait.”Enzo nodded and stepped back into the shadows.A few minutes later, headlights cut through the mist. A black sedan rolled to a stop, and Vico Russo, one of Vittorio’s oldest men, climbed out. He is short, thick-built, his face was like stone… he was the kind of man who’d killed for Vittorio before Dante was old enough to drive.“Signor Dante,” Vico greeted, adjusting his coat. His voice had the confidence of someone who thought he couldn’t be touched. “You called for me?”Dante didn’t turn.

The old man watched him with an expression like a man reading a ledger, finding only debts.Vittorio let the cigar go out in the ashtray. He pressed the white handkerchief to his mouth; when he lowered it the cloth was speckled dark.The sound that came after was not a cough so much as a dry, tired rattle. He didn’t hurry. Everything he said came measured, deliberate.“You listen,” Vittorio said. “I’ve been thinking about succession.” His voice was almost conversational, but it had teeth. “This house has rules. I taught them myself. The crown is not a trinket that travels by rumor or by the noise of men in taverns.”Dante’s posture did not change. “Then name me,” he said quietly. “Make it clear.”Vittorio’s eyes glittered. He smiled without warmth. “Do you think I would be so easy? That I would hand my life’s work to the son who thinks the chair is his by right?” He leaned forward, fingers steepled on the desk. “No. You will not have it that way.”Dante felt a slow tightening at his t

The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Dante’s study, gold against the dark wood and the faint smell of whiskey and ink. Maps, ledgers, and coded lists covered the desk like a battlefield in miniature. The house was still, save for the occasional murmur of a guard’s radio from the corridor. Enzo stood near the desk, his jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled, his hands resting behind his back. His expression was steady and expectant. Dante finished signing a document, capped his pen, and looked up. His face was calm, but his eyes carried a hard, steady light. “How many confirmed?” he asked. “Seven capos from Messina. Two more from Palermo,” Enzo said. “All loyal. The ports, warehouses, and docks… they’ve already moved their men into place. They’re just waiting for the word.” Dante leaned back, silent for a beat. “And the others?” “Three are uncertain,” Enzo replied

Later that evening, Bella took the vial under her garment with a syringe. She touched Elena’s shoulder with a quick, steadying pressure. “Tell the doctor it’s time,” she said. “He should come to his wing but that should be in like an hour’s time.”Elena nodded, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. “Be careful.”“I always am,” Bella replied, and the lie fit her like a well-worn glove. She stood, wrapped her shawl tighter, hooked her hand over the cane, and eased toward the door.Outside Vittorio’s wing, two soldiers who had been posted by Bella nodded as a greeting to Bella. Bella nodded back and entered into Vittorio’s wing without knocking.The wing smelled of oil and old smoke. The corridor lights threw long bars across the floor; portraits watched them go by with dull, painted eyes.When she reached his door the guards at the threshold shifted, opening it with the gentleness one uses for a man prone to sudden moods. Bella limped

The moment the needle sank into his arm, he felt it. A strange coldness, crawling up his veins like winter finding its way to his heart. He stared at Bella. His daughter. The crippled little girl who used to call him Papa with eyes too full of trust. Now those eyes were calm, cruel, and tired. “What… what did you do?” His voice cracked. His chest burned. “What did you inject into me?” Bella didn’t answer at first. She only watched him, the way he once watched men beg for mercy. Then she said softly, Bella rolled her eyes as if tired of explaining. “The leaf I’ve been feeding you for years. Foglia di notte. Even if the best doctors in this world open your veins, they won’t find it.” The room blurred. His coughs came faster, sharper. He pressed a hand to his chest and felt it hammer weakly against his ribs. For the first time in years, Vittorio Moretti… Don of the family, the man feared by cities felt real fear. “Bella,” he rasped. “You don’t understand. You can’t—” His knees t