Semua Bab Everyday For The Thief: A Chaotic and Poetic Mafia Romance : Bab 171 - Bab 180

Gregory Vancouver leaned against the edge of the villa’s marble hallway, one hand gripping the wall for balance. His body ached in places he hated to admit, and the expensive cologne sprayed around the corridors only reminded him of who he’d been reduced to—someone’s toy, someone’s shame.Every step felt like mockery. Even the polished tiles seemed to laugh at him as his shoes dragged across them.His loyal guard, Marco, followed quietly a few steps behind, eyes sharp, as though expecting Adriano’s men to pounce at any second.Gregory almost smirked—Marco still thought he mattered. Marco still thought his loyalty meant something in this city. But Gregory knew the truth: this was Adriano’s Italy. Not his. Never his.Gregory muttered under his breath, voice laced with venom, “If I stay here another night, I’ll end up worshipping the bastard’s boots.”Marco tilted his head. “Sir?”“Nothing,” Gregory snapped, waving him off. He pushed open the villa doors, and the sunlight slapped his fac

Gregory woke with a dry mouth and a sour taste in his throat. His head felt like it was filled with glass and regret. He pushed himself upright on the thin mattress and cursed under his breath. The safehouse had two rooms, one table, three mismatched chairs, and a window that looked out onto a narrow alley. It was ugly, and it smelled like old smoke and damp clothes. It was exactly the kind of place a man on the run should hate but accept.He swung his legs over the edge and felt the ache in his body. For a week his body had been a map of other men’s hands. Don Adriano had taken his pride and left a bruise that wouldn’t shake. The pain in his backside was a constant reminder. He rubbed it, hissed, then pulled a shirt on. He did not have time for pity. Not now.Marco stood at the kitchen doorway with a cup of coffee in his hands. Marco’s face was a map of lines—each line a job, a fight, a debt. Marco had been with Gregory for the long jobs, the bad nights, the cleanups that left other

At a market near the river he met with a small-time fixer who owed him a favor. For thousands of euros—money he did not have but promised—this man agreed to reroute a shipping manifest. “Make it look like the Maranos did it,” Gregory told him. “Falsify a bill of lading, put the signatures in the wrong place, and I’ll pay you back when this is over.” The man took the money, looked at Gregory with the cold eye of a man who measured every risk, and walked away.On his way back to the car Gregory felt eyes on him. He slowed. A motorcycle idled ahead, two men on it. One had a hood up, the other watched him like a hawk. His pulse spiked. He kept walking. He couldn’t run. Running was for the guilty who had nothing left to lose, and Gregory had too much to lose. He made it to the car and drove. He felt watched.They got to the new safehouse—a flat above a bakery with thin walls and a man who took cash and looked the other way. They moved inside and locked the door. Gregory banged the palm of

The Vancouver estate was quiet except for the soft hum of the security systems and the distant shuffle of guards on patrol. The home office smelled faintly of leather, cigars, and the sharp polish Hades liked on his mahogany desk.He sat behind it now, broad shoulders filling the chair, the faint glow of his computer screen throwing shadows across his face.The cold cross chain that marked him as the Crossbearer—the feared kingpin of America’s mafia—peeked just above the collar of his shirt as he leaned forward.On the screen, Christian Kalashnikov’s face was sharp and steady, Moscow written in his eyes, his suit immaculate.The two men were deep in quiet talk, though Hades’ gaze kept straying, distracted, restless. His phone buzzed once on the table beside him, but he ignored it. Christian was important.The office door creaked. Bare feet padded across the carpet. Claudine entered, wearing her old painting apron over leggings, her hands smudged with blue and green, hair loose around

19:47 – Dublin Docklands, IrelandThe rain fell in needles, cutting against the black water of the Liffey. Cargo ships groaned under the night weight, cranes stood like steel giants watching over the dock. Somewhere beneath that industrial skeleton, Gregory Vancouver stepped off the black van that had carried him across the border, his shoes splashing against oil-stained puddles.He walked like a king, or at least he told himself he did. His back hurt, his pride hurt more, but his chin never lowered. He had survived Adriano’s leash, survived Hades’ shadow, and tonight he would remind the Irish that he was not a man to be discarded.His loyal guard, Marco, walked beside him, the only face Gregory still trusted. Behind them, half a dozen men who had sworn loyalty stood, eyes sharp, hands brushing against their weapons. The air was soaked with danger, but Gregory inhaled it like perfume.“Smell that, Marco?” Gregory said, adjusting his coat. “That’s the smell of fear waiting to bend.”Ma