The Mafia's Private Gigolo のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

Chris's POV You're a fucking curse! You took everything from me! You took my wife, my life, everything. You even bit off my ear? I should have killed you the very day the doctor told me you were born and my wife died. The voice is everywhere. Inside my skull. Under my skin. My father's voice, but wrong — distorted, like he's speaking through a mouthful of blood and broken glass. I can't breathe. His hands are around my throat, thumbs pressing into my windpipe with that particular, practiced cruelty of a man who's done this before. My lungs burn. They actually burn, like someone poured gasoline down my throat and struck a match. I claw at his wrists, at his arms, at anything, but my fingers pass right through him. Ghost hands. Useless. I'm touching air while he squeezes the life out of me, and it's not fair, it's not fair, I already bit his fucking ear off, I already won, why is he still here — Die, you bastard. Fucking die. Stop. Please. I try to scream but there's no air for sou

Hi beautiful souls, I want to start this note the way I always do — with a genuine thank you. It's so incredibly nice having you all around. Every single one of you who has picked up this book, supported or even showed up quietly to read a chapter has made this journey feel worth it. I see you. I really do. And I appreciate your support for this book more than words can fully express. Now, let me be honest about something: I'm sorry that I've delayed updates for a while. I know waiting for new chapters can be frustrating, especially when a story has you hooked and you're just dying to know what happens next. Please know that the delay wasn't a lack of love or care for you all — life has simply been crazy on my part of the world. Sometimes the days blur together, responsibilities pile up, and before I know it, weeks have passed. I'm working on finding my rhythm again, and I promise the story isn't forgotten. It lives in my head every day, and your patience means the world to me. I ho

Chris’s POV The interrogation room smells like stale coffee and institutional despair.Four gray walls, one of them mirrored — because apparently every cop show ever made was right about the two-way glass thing. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs that look like they were designed by someone who hates spines. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes with the energy of a dying insect, casting everything in this sickly, yellow-green tint that makes me look like I'm about to vomit. I might. The coffee they offered me is still sitting there, untouched, cooling into something that resembles tar.Two detectives. One young, eager, pen tapping against his notepad like he's keeping time for a song only he can hear. The other older, heavy-lidded, leaning back in his chair with the practiced boredom of a man who's heard every lie twice."Let's go over it again," the young one says. "Where were you on the night of the fifteenth?"

Rodrigo's POVSleep has always eluded me. A man like me could never sleep — the ghosts of the lives I've ended make that impossible. But something about Chris makes it lighter. Seeing him. Lighter.Compassion?Fuck. I'm not getting into this sentimental bullshit right now.I walk up to my wardrobe and pull on my black blazer over my red shirt, heading out for the ordeal of this already fucked-up day. After I drop Chris off, I've got to attend a meeting with those stuck-up esas perras engreídas. I care less about the outcome of the election. I didn't vote, and moreover, my old man has it in the bag already. Dante wasn't participating, so he was the next obvious choice.Esteban? Well. I took care of Esteban properly. Sent my men to give him a special message.Chris is safe. I'll keep him safe. He's been through enough."How are you feeling?" I ask, meeting him coming out of his room, tote bag over his shoulder. He answers with something like a hollow shrug and proceeds ahead of me, downs

Rodrigo's POV The door closes with a soft thud, and something about the sound bothers me more than it should. Not the sound itself. The finality of it. I bought that lace suit with my own hands - or my own thumb, anyway, sitting at the High Table like a horny teenager, ordering it under the table while old men in expensive suits decided the future of the underworld. I had it delivered. I sent him the message. I made him wait three hours in nothing but three square inches of lace, and then I walked in, looked my fill, and dismissed him like a servant who'd overstayed. Leave. One word. I watched his face do that thing - the stammer, the fish-mouth, the confusion of a kid who can't figure out what rule he broke. And I let him stand there in it. I let him walk back down my hallway half-naked and humiliated while my men tried not to laugh.