Lahat ng Kabanata ng Ruined by The Mafia Heir : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

AREŚThe door to the room downstairs slams shut behind me with a heavy thud, cutting off the stench of blood and fear. I roll my shoulders once, feeling the tension bleed from my muscles in slow, steady pulses.The club’s music thrums through the walls now, louder, messier, a heartbeat of chaos just waiting to be unleashed.Dante, my right-hand man, the shadow watching my back, falls in step beside me as I move down the hall.“Ares,” he says, keeping his voice low, “Matteo’s here. Brought a group with him.” I barely react. I was expecting Matteo to show. It's his birthday, and Oscura is family territory. I nod once, signalling him to continue. “And...” A hesitation, almost imperceptible.I stop walking and turn my head slowly.“And?” I press, voice low enough to cut glass. He swallows thickly before he answers.“The girl is with them. Bianca’s little sister.”For a second, nothing moves inside me. No thought. No breath. Just a cold flash of something I can’t put a name to.“Upstairs,”

AREŚThe first thing I hear when I wake is the sound of her breathing. Breathy, unsteady, yet steady enough to tell me she’s alive.I sit up in the chair, every muscle in my back protesting after a night of sleeping half-sitting, half-hovering like some deranged guard dog. My shirt clings to my skin, still damp from yesterday. I scrub a hand over my jaw, the coarse drag of stubble grounding me in the moment.Jordyn is still curled up on the bed where I left her. Small and fragile. I had one of the girls change her out of the wet clothes and into one of my oversized t-shirts, which is drowning her frame like armour she doesn't even know she’s wearing.I watch her for a moment longer than I should.Making sure...making goddamn sure. Because part of me still doesn't believe it. That I got to her in time. That she didn't fucking die in my arms.I push up from the chair, my joints stiff. There’s too much shit I need to deal with today, starting with Matteo for not watching out for her like

JORDYNI don’t bother waiting for Ares to come back up. I change into my dress from the night before, grimacing as the damp fabric clings to my skin like a second, suffocating layer. The coldness, chilling me from the inside out.I don’t even know or remember how I got undressed and wound up in one of his t-shirts, but I don’t even have the energy to think about it.I catch sight of his T-shirt, the one I was just wearing, the one he must have pulled over me at some point, lying crumpled at the foot of the bed. My chest squeezes in a way I don't want to examine too closely. Gently, I pick it up, smoothing the creases before folding it neatly and placing it back on the bed.It feels oddly final. Like sealing off a moment I’m not supposed to want to remember. And without another glance at the room, at the place that smells like him and feels like him, I pull open the door and slip out into the long, dim hallway.My footsteps sound too loud against the floor. My pulse even louder.I need

JORDYN You’re being reckless again, Jordyn. I know this could very well be another stupid decision on my part. Matteo is my sister’s stepson. marriage, that makes me his aunt, if you squint and ignore how completely wrong it feels to even think of it that way.And yet, standing here, breathless and aching under the weight of his heated gaze, the technicalities seem a million miles away. Because, right here, in this moment, I don’t feel like his aunt. I feel like a girl clinging to anything that might stop her from crumbling into a thousand jagged pieces.Matteo moves around me, stopping just behind me. I feel the heat of his body and the way the water laps against my thighs as he draws nearer. He leans in closer, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my damp skin.“Thoughts of you and the things I want to do to you keep me up most nights, Fossette," he murmurs, his voice a l

AREŚ She tenses the second I sit down.Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t breathe, not properly. It’s subtle, but I see it, feel it. Like a ripple in the air between us.Good. I want her to be nervous. I like the taste of her unease.I lean back in the chair, posture relaxed like I don’t give a damn. But every move I make is calculated. Precise.Jordyn's attention stays fixed on her plate as though the crostata in front of her has suddenly become the most fascinating thing in Sicily.My knee brushes hers as I settle into the chair—it's barely a touch, but she goes still. I expect her to move her leg, but she doesn’t. Interesting. I lean back as one of the staff places an espresso in front of me, deliberately turning my attention towards Enzo and my father rather than the girl sitting close enough that I can feel the