All Chapters of Máfia's Hated Bride: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

ANGELINE HARRINGTON The morning was sunny, but the Moscow chill still stung my face. I tried to distract myself, to convince myself that everything was alright, that the photos were just a cheap attempt to shake me up. But inside, the trembling still lingered. In the room next to the clinic, while we waited to be called for the ultrasound, Yulia chattered nonstop, as always. Her eyes, however, kept straying to a specific point in the waiting room—where Yuri stood, erect and silent as a statue. "He's so serious," Yulia whispered to me, her cheeks flushing. "Have you noticed, ma'am? He never smiles. I think he doesn't like me?" I almost laughed. Yuri, the hard-eyed young man who had seen more than many forty-year-old men. Trained by Dmitri. Loyal to the bone. And completely oblivious—or perhaps not so oblivious—to Yulia's obvious adoration. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to show it," I replied, touching his hand. "Some men are like that. They keep everything inside." "Well, you s

NIKOLAI VOLKOV Yuri didn't wait to inform me. The call came as soon as Angeline entered the mansion's hall. I already knew. I heard everything through the eavesdropping system—it all reached my ears in real time. Still, I needed to hear it from Yuri. I needed confirmation. "What did he want?" the question came out cold, restrained, even though she knew the answer. "I didn't say that, Pakhan," Yuri replied, his voice firm and professional. "Just that your boss wanted to talk to you. About her mother. You refused and got into the car." I hung up without answering. Elizabeth. Again. The damned witch threatened to resurface from the shadows like a ghost that refuses to die. But that wasn't all. It wasn't just the secret. It was jealousy. Not a possessive jealousy, but a protective jealousy. "Did Angel already know him?" I needed to check first, so when she came in, I was already waiting for her in the lobby. My arms crossed, my gaze stormy, my jaw clenched. She entered supporte

ANGELINE HARRINGTON Angeline fell asleep first—which is rare. The pregnancy exhausts her in a way that nothing else can, and now she breathes deeply, her face relaxed against my chest, her round belly pressed against my side. But I can't sleep. I run my hand over her belly in circular motions, feeling the twins move—a kick here, an elbow there, small manifestations of life that fascinate me in a way I never imagined possible. A soft, almost imperceptible smile curves my lips as one of the babies seems to stretch, pushing against my palm. “Dad is here,” I think, and that warms me from the inside out. For a moment, I am just Nikolai. The man. The father. The husband. The sleeping beast. But then my eyes wander to the ceiling, and my mind slips into a colder, darker reality, more me. The smile disappears, replaced by a hard, unforgiving line. "The photos." I still haven't discovered who sent them. The email address was encrypted so badly that even my best men couldn't completely

NIKOLAI VOLKOV At dawn, while I was still mentally rehearsing the words I would use to apologize to Angeline, that same person was moving the pawns on the chessboard. He was cold. Calculating. And he waited all these months to finally act — and to choose the exact moment of my jealousy, my vulnerability, my perfect opening. I got up from the sofa in the office, my bones aching after hours in a position that wasn't the bed next to my wife. My mind was still racing with how I would face Angeline after what I did in the early hours of the morning. How would I look into her eyes without seeing the fear I myself had placed there? That's when my cell phone — the same one I'd thrown against the wall hours earlier, now with a cracked screen — vibrated on the floor. Insistently. An email notification. I bent down to pick it up, my fingers still heavy with exhaustion, and unlocked the screen with an automatic gesture. The sender was anonymous—an encrypted address I didn't recognize. An

NIKOLAI VOLKOV As soon as Dimitri gathered the men at the entrance of the mansion, he selected only the young, blond security guards for the mansion's war planning room. There were fifteen men. Fifteen faces I saw every day, who protected me, who killed for me. Fifteen pairs of eyes that now looked at me with confusion and a poorly disguised fear. I didn't give any explanation. "Take off your shirts," I ordered, my voice echoing off the stone walls. "Now. And show me your backs." There was a second of hesitation. Just one. Then, out of fear and respect—or perhaps out of survival instinct—they obeyed. Shirts fell to the floor. T-shirts were pulled over their heads. Fifteen torsos exposed, fifteen pairs of backs turned to me. I observed each one. My eyes scanned skin, muscles, and scars. I searched for a tattoo—a snake, a Chinese dragon, anything that resembled the image etched in those cursed photos. Some with clean backs, others with knife scars, anchor tattoos, mermaid cross