Todos os capítulos de Máfia's Hated Bride: Capítulo 51 - Capítulo 60

ANGELINE HARRINGTON The cold still lived in his eyes, but now it was contained, domesticated under the mask of civilization. “Sit,” he said, his voice neutral, indicating the chair across from him. I obeyed in silence, avoiding his gaze. The aroma of strong coffee and croissants couldn’t disguise the tension that weighed in the air. Nikolai wasn’t fooling me. The beast was only contained, dressed in Egyptian cotton and politeness. The Pakhan and the monster were right there, sitting at my breakfast table, serving me jam with a precision that reminded me of a surgeon—or an executioner. The contrast between the man from last night and the one this morning wasn’t a duality. It was the same person seen under two different lights: the light of desire and the light of a full moon. And I was now forced to see him under both. “What you saw…” he began, pausing to put sugar in his coffee with incredible precision. “Was business. Delayed and poorly resolved business. It wasn’t meant for you.

ANGELINE HARRINGTON I’m still terrified. My heart won’t stop beating erratically, waiting for a reprisal that never comes. I said things I never dared to utter in the months I was his silent prisoner. But I couldn’t take it anymore. After seeing that scene, after seeing him covered in another man’s blood, after sharing such intimacy with him in the bedroom… his duality crushed me. How can the same man whose hands touched me with an intensity that bordered on adoration transform, in minutes, into that icy monster? I knew that, sooner or later, I would have to keep my promise. He would come to my room, and I wouldn’t have the courage to refuse him. But now, the mere thought of his proximity fills me with a new, deeper, and more distressing fear. A fear that isn’t only of what he might do to me, but of what he is. And that leaves me devastated, lost. I was completely disoriented in the room, no longer knowing what to think, when I heard new sounds coming from below. They were no longer

ANGELINE HARRINGTON And from the way Nikolai looked, he truly knew the name. Elizaveta Volkova. And now he knew she wasn’t a legend of the underworld; she was real. That was why, looking at the man in front of us, he said: “I’ve heard she is a Pakhan who commands one of the most discreet and efficient clans in the East, isn’t that right?” “Yes, sir. Our Lady is known for her meticulous strategy and for never starting unnecessary conflicts. Believe me, she prefers channels of communication over bullets.” “Fine. If that’s true, then say what you have to say.” The leader of the intruders, a man of average height but with intelligent eyes, kept his hands visible—a demonstration of non-aggression that seemed genuine. “Mr. Volkov,” he began, maintaining a respectful tone. “Elizaveta Volkova sends her regards. And a warning.” “What warning?” Nikolai’s question came out short and dry. The leader of the intruders took a deep breath and answered: “Pakhan Volkova is aware of the problems

ANGELINE HARRINGTON When he realized how bad the situation was, he shouted to Dmitri and the other men: “Retreat! Now!” I didn’t know anything about strategies or numbers. But during that desperate attack, he leaned toward me, his voice cutting through the noise of the gunfire: “We need to get out of here, darling. Stay close, okay? No matter what it costs, always stay close to me, and don’t disobey me this time, Angeline. Do you hear me?” “Yes… yes, I swear I won’t…” I answered, my voice a thin thread of terror. “Damn it…” he growled, shooting with deadly precision before continuing, speaking low, almost to himself. “I was an idiot for bringing you here, for letting my guard down. First Elizaveta’s men… they could have done something to you. And now this…” While he spoke, he kept shooting, always hitting his targets with a terrifying coldness. In that moment, I didn’t see only the killer, the Pakhan. I saw my protector. I knew Nikolai had chosen that isolated refuge only to hav

ANGELINE HARRINGTON Later, already in the early hours of the following morning, with the fever dropping a degree, he opened his eyes. This time there was a glimmer of consciousness in them, but it was cloudy, blurred by pain and medication. His gaze wandered around the room until it found mine. “Angeline…” he murmured. “I’m here.” He closed his eyes again, as if the effort was too great. “She was… like you. Soft. Before… before everything ended…” His voice was a thin breath. “He broke her. My father broke her, even though he loved her, because men like him and… like me don’t know how to love. And after she… left, I stayed with him. Learning not to be broken…” The words were like shards of glass. I carefully pieced them together, trying to assemble the puzzle. The loving mother who had died. The stern father, Ivan Arkady, whom he always saw as the cause of her death. The boy who learned to transform his own sensitivity into armor, his fear into fury, his need for love into contemp