Burn For Me : Bound By The Mafia King のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 131 - チャプター 140

Cali’s pov.Something’s off.Hale hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t done anything, not really. But I know him now. I know the silence he wears like armor when he’s bracing for war. The way he avoids looking me dead in the eye when he’s lying by omission. The restless way his thumb taps against his thigh when he’s pretending he’s not itching to move, to act, to burn something down.He’s hiding something. I can feel it in my bones.It started days ago, subtly. A few curt responses. The occasional side-glance at his phone during dinner. A sudden uptick in hushed conversations over secure comm lines and men arriving at the mansion with stern expressions and files tucked under their arms. I caught him sending one of his lieutenants out with a burner phone and a set of unmarked plates for a car I’ve never seen before. And when I ask him directly, he just brushes me off.“I’m handling something,” he says. “It doesn’t concern you.”But that’s not how things have been between us. Not since we cross

Cali’s pov.I’m still standing when he tells me no.Not gently. Not regretfully. Just—no. Firm, clipped, final. The word slams into me like a wall of glass, sharp and cold, and I feel every jagged piece slice clean through the thin thread of patience I’ve been holding onto since he first said “Burke runs the ring.”No?No?“You’re not going,” Hale says again, like that’s the end of it. Like my rage and fear don’t matter. Like I’m some child being told to stay put while the adults handle the dangerous parts.I don’t yell. I don’t cry. I just stare at him with ice in my chest and heat burning my throat.“I’m not asking for permission,” I say tightly.His jaw clenches. “Yes, you are.”I take a step forward. “You think you get to lock me out of this? Again? After everything?”“Your sister needs you here.”“She needs us both alive.”“You think you’ll protect her better by running into a war zone halfway across the world?”I shake my head, fury swelling behind my ribs. “You think I’m reckle

Cali’s pov.The sun hasn’t even risen when Hale’s bags are loaded into the waiting SUV.It’s early enough that the world feels paused—silent, suspended in that pale gray hush before morning decides what it wants to become. I stand barefoot at the top of the stairs, Hale’s sweatshirt drowning me, my hair tousled like I just rolled out of bed.That’s the image I want to give him—lazy, affectionate, half-asleep and docile.Not the woman who has her passport hidden under the bathroom sink. Not the woman who bought a plane ticket last night using the secure terminal in his office after bribing his sleep-deprived maid with the promise of helping her niece get into a medical trial for lupus. The same woman who plans to be on the flight after his, chasing him halfway across the world with nothing but grit and secrets in her carry-on.The woman he would chain to the wall if he knew.I follow him outside as the sky softens with morning. Dew coats the mansion’s stone steps. The SUV’s engine hums

Cali’s pov. The next day, when I finally track Hale—I lose him within minutes.One moment, he’s weaving through the narrow street—shoulders squared, coat rippling behind him, disappearing past a stack of crates and a pair of bickering vendors—and the next, he’s gone. Vanished into the thick veins of Rome’s ancient skeleton, the city folding around him like it’s swallowing its own sins. I glance down the alley again, then pivot, scanning rooftops, corners, window reflections. Nothing.Panic doesn’t rise yet—not fully. But it stirs. Scraping quietly at the edges of my ribs.I move. Quickly. Low profile. Head down, scarf tucked a little tighter around my hairline. I try to focus on the rhythm of my boots, the cadence of breath—four counts in, six counts out—but my lungs don’t cooperate. The air feels heavier here. Dustier. Like the cobblestones have collected secrets in the cracks for centuries, and tonight they’re whispering warnings meant just for me.Maybe I’ve gone too far this time

Cali’s pov.I wake to the scent of coffee and burnt sugar.At first, I think it’s a dream. The pillow’s too soft, the sheets too smooth, my body too sore in all the right places. But then lips brush against my bare shoulder—soft, warm, unhurried—and I stir, eyes blinking open to early sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains.Hale is perched on the edge of the bed beside me, still shirtless, hair damp from the shower, tray balanced in one hand. The other lifts a piece of flaky, powdered pastry to my mouth as he smirks down at me.“Open.”I do, mostly out of reflex.The pastry melts on my tongue—warm, buttery, sweet enough to make my eyes flutter shut again. But I don’t get long. Because then he’s pressing a cup of espresso into my hand and setting a tray across my lap like we’re not in the middle of a war, like the world didn’t try to swallow us whole last night.I eye the spread. Croissants. Sliced fruit. Prosciutto and soft cheese arranged too neatly for it to be anything but