The Mafia Protocol のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 171 - チャプター 180

The Falcone estate hadn’t seen this much tension since the night of the false treaty with the Virellis. Armed guards patrolled every entrance, Marco’s men doubled their rotations, and the war room was buzzing with voices trying to drown out a truth no one wanted to admit: the enemy was already inside. Camilla paced in front of the long conference table, her arms crossed, jaw tight. The dossiers were scattered like discarded memories—names, photos, backgrounds, and red marks drawn through some of them. Riccardo stood silently near the window, watching the storm clouds gather over the hills. He hadn’t said much since the shootout in Hollow Creek. The betrayal had cut deeper than expected. “They were feeding information to the Eldridges for months,” Camilla said, her voice cutting through the quiet like glass. “You saw the codes in the shipment ledgers. The timing, the routes. All of it.” Marco ran a hand through his hair. “And they were smart about it. Never enough to draw suspicion

The private hangar in Sicily buzzed with activity, cloaked beneath the fog of early dawn. Jet engines hummed low in the background as Riccardo stood on the tarmac, his coat flaring in the breeze. Camilla stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the horizon, where the sun threatened to rise but hadn’t quite broken through the gray. The Council was no longer a myth. Blackwell had made sure of that. Now they had to act—not just to protect what they had, but to expand, to eliminate every root and branch of this new resurgence before it could spread. “What’s the next move?” Camilla asked, her voice steady. Riccardo turned to face her, his jaw tight with calculation. “We pull every ally, every favor. We consolidate our territory. And we go after Blackwell’s network piece by piece. We don’t wait for him to attack again.” “He wants us to react,” she warned. “That’s part of the game.” Riccardo shook his head. “No. He expects us to react. But we’re going to flip the board.” Marco approached f

The night before the summit, the villa felt more like a mausoleum than a base of operations. Shadows clung to the corners, quiet whispers traveled through the halls, and the air was thick with tension. Geneva sparkled below in arrogant calm, its glass towers unaware of the inferno that loomed just beyond the treeline.Camilla sat on the floor of the strategy room, cross-legged, her eyes scanning the final layout of Blackwell’s compound. A red dot marked the vault. Blue dots marked the patrols. But in her mind, it was all blood.Marco stepped into the room, carrying two mugs of bitter espresso. He handed her one without a word and sat beside her.“You know,” he said after a long silence, “when I first joined Riccardo, I never thought I’d see the end of the Council. It always felt like something that just… existed. Like death. Or taxes.”Camilla smirked faintly. “Or sin.”“Exactly.” He took a long sip, then stared ahead. “You changed all that. You came in and made us believe we could ki

The silence in the cathedral didn’t last. As Blackwell was dragged away, the cold echo of boots on marble replaced the solemn quiet. Riccardo issued a series of terse commands to the guards, his voice clipped with restraint. Marco followed closely, his pistol still drawn in case Blackwell tried one last desperate stunt. Camilla stood unmoving in the center of the cathedral, staring at the spot where Blackwell had fallen. It should have felt like triumph. Instead, it felt like a funeral. Not for Blackwell—he wasn’t worth mourning. But for the pieces of herself she’d buried to get here. The woman she once was, the one who thought justice and revenge were the same thing. That Camilla no longer existed. “I want him in the black site within the hour,” she said finally, her voice steady. “No contact with outside operatives. No comms. Nothing.” Riccardo looked over. “You want to interrogate him?” “No,” she said quietly. “I want to break him.” They flew him out in a cargo jet disguis

The jet engines hummed softly above the clouds as Camilla sat in the rear cabin, staring at the mark Isadora had recreated from the fallen assassin’s neck. Three intersecting circles. A symbol that looked harmless, almost elegant—until you understood what it stood for. “They don’t want territory,” Riccardo murmured from the seat beside her. “They want infrastructure. Influence.” Camilla nodded. “Power without borders.” “They’ve been moving for years,” Isadora added, tapping through encrypted files on her tablet. “Mergers. Data consolidations. Private armies disguised as security firms. Every conflict we thought was isolated was part of a test. And we just proved we’re a threat.” “By surviving Seraphine’s gauntlet?” Camilla asked bitterly. “No,” Isadora said. “By refusing to join them.” Marco joined them from the cockpit. “We’re landing in Istanbul. Neutral ground. Seraphine arranged a contact.” Camilla’s expression hardened. “We’re not playing defense. If the Consortium think