บททั้งหมดของ Master of Her Sins: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

SebTHE REPETITIVE, deafening bang-bang-bang of my custom 1911 echoed off the reinforced concrete walls of the underground firing range.Sharp white light glinted off the spent brass casings raining onto the epoxy floor at my feet, bouncing with sharp metallic pings before coming to a rest in the dark shadows.Down range, sixty feet into the gloom, the paper target tore open in tight, violent bursts. Every shot grouped in the center of the chest silhouette—dead center, precise, lethal.I ejected the empty magazine, letting the steel frame drop to the concrete, and reached for the fresh loaded one resting on the heavy wooden counter beside me.The pungent scent of burnt cordite, gun oil, and hot steel filled the subterranean room—the only place in Milan where the constant, suffocating noise inside my head finally went quiet.The heavy steel security door at the back of the range hissed op

Seb“YOU LOOK tense, Sebastian,” Alessandra murmured, setting her cup down with a light clink. “A man in your position should be celebrating. The merger documents are almost complete.”I turned around slowly, moving with deliberate, dangerous calm until I was standing directly over her desk.I didn't say a word. I simply leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the polished wood, bringing my face close to hers until she was forced to look directly into my eyes.The lazy smile on her lips flickered and vanished.“If you ever step foot inside my penthouse without my explicit invitation again,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, quiet register that held no warmth at all, “I will not care who your father is. I will not care about the southern docks or the trade routes. I will erase you.”Alessandra’s chest rose and fell quickly, a flash of genui

SebTHE AIR in the subterranean interrogation vault beneath the Ricaforte docks smelled of damp concrete, rust, and salt water.I stood in the center of the windowless room, my coat off, my sleeves rolled up to my elbows over my forearms.The harsh overhead bulb swung gently on its frayed wire, casting jagged shadows across the blood-stained floor.Sitting tied to a heavy iron chair in the middle of the room was Paolo—a man who had eaten at my father’s table for thirty years. A senior lieutenant who had watched me grow from a reckless boy into the Don of Milan.“This is useless…” he said in between ragged breaths. “You won’t get anything out from me…”He was bruised, bleeding from a split lip, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow wheezes, but his stubborn jaw remained locked tight.Marcus stood near the iron door, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a carved block of cold granite.“We’ll see…” I said, taking slow steps towards the tray.Beside him on a low metal tray lay a he

BelaTHE PENTHOUSE was suffocatingly quiet, wrapped in the heavy, expectant silence that always preceded a slaughter.I stood in the center of Sebastian’s expansive bedroom, watching him dress for the Moretti Gala.He moved with a grim, deliberate precision that chilled me to the bone. He pulled on a tailored black dress shirt, the dark silk stretching taut across his broad shoulders, followed by a dark charcoal vest that tapered sharply at his waist.On the edge of the dark velvet bed lay his leather shoulder harness, double-holstered and gleaming under the soft ambient recessed lights. Beside it sat two extra magazines, filled with heavy, hollow-point rounds.“Seb,” I said quietly, my voice barely breaking the heavy silence of the room.He didn't answer immediately. He picked up his shoulder harness, slipping his arms through the leather, adjusting the fit against his chest. Only when the steel of his twin sidearms was resting securely beneath his arms did he turn to face me.His da

SebTHE AIR inside the grand ballroom of the Palazzo Moretti was thick with expensive perfume, aged champagne, and the suffocating stench of political deceit.Captains, underbosses, and politicians moved through the hall in immaculate tuxedos and shimmering gowns, celebrating the formal union between the Moretti and Ricaforte empires.Alessandra clung tightly to my right arm, her white lace gloves resting against my dark sleeve. Her black gown trailed behind her as she beamed at a cluster of visiting capos from Genoa, playing the radiant, victorious bride-to-be for the entire room.“You look wonderfully dangerous tonight, Sebastian,” Alessandra purred softly, leaning up to press her lips close to my ear. “My father is beaming. He’s going to announce our formal engagement date when he takes the floor.”“Your father is an old fox enjoying his last harvest,” I said flatly, keeping my face completely unreadable.She let out a light, musical laugh, unbothered by my chill. “Let him have his