His Trophy His War의 모든 챕터: 챕터 31 - 챕터 40

Russo’s CounterstrikeThe ashtray overflowed.Russo sat alone in his penthouse study, the Milan skyline stretching beyond glass walls. Neon bled across his desk, illuminating half a dozen empty glasses. He hadn’t changed since the council meeting; his black coat still hung from his shoulders, his shirt collar unbuttoned, and the silk tie loosened and crooked.The photographs he’d used to corner Councillor Bianchi were scattered on the floor, trampled. Worthless now.Sofia stood by the bar, swirling a glass of red. She didn’t speak at first, just watched him smoke in silence. When she finally moved, her heels clicked sharply across the floor.“You lost,” she said simply.Russo’s gaze cut to her. “Not lost. Delayed.”“Bianchi chose her.” Sofia’s voice was edged with bitterness. “Livia. She walked in and—”Russo slammed his fist down, the glass rattling. “She humiliated me.” His voice dropped, cold and dangerous. “In front of a trembling rat I should have broken years ago.”Sofia sipped

The Gala SetupThe invitation looked innocent enough.Heavy cardstock, gold lettering, embossed seal of the Port Expansion Committee. “An Evening of Celebration. Il Palazzo, Friday. Formal attire.”Livia held it in her hand at the safehouse table, her expression unreadable. Alessandro stood across from her, jaw tight. Sergio leaned over her shoulder, snorting.“Celebration? More like an execution,” Sergio muttered.Carlo adjusted his glasses nervously. “They’re baiting you. The timing’s too convenient. Russo’s handprints are all over this.”Livia set the invitation down with care, as though it might burn her fingers. “If I don’t go, I look weak. Like I have something to hide.”Alessandro’s voice was low and firm. “If you go, you walk into Russo’s arena. He’ll have everything staged—photographers, councillors, maybe even the police. One misstep and he ruins you in front of half Milan.”She met his eyes, steady. “Which is why I have to go.”Clara scribbled furiously in her notebook, per

The Stage of SecretsCouncillors and bankers murmured in little knots, sipping champagne with hands that twitched at the edges. Reporters crowded at the back, pens scratching, cameras flashing, lenses already aimed at the raised dais.Russo stood at the centre, glass in hand, a king cloaked in charm. His smile stretched wide, but the corners of his eyes were tight, as if fury burned behind the polish.“And so,” he said, voice smooth, carrying easily, “tonight we celebrate Milan’s prosperity. Our ports. Our trade. Our future.”Applause scattered, polite but brittle.Alessandro’s gaze swept the room. Every tuxedoed guard, every waiter, every “guest”—any one of them could be Russo’s blade. He leaned slightly toward Livia, his voice low. “Remember, half this room is his.”“I know,” she murmured, her chin lifted. “That’s why I’m not leaving.”Her black silk gown flowed like water as she stepped closer to the dais, heels tapping against the marble. Every head turned.Russo’s smile deepened,

Ashes of the GalaThe chandeliers still swayed. Crystal fragments clung to the floor like jagged stars scattered across marble veined in blood. Sirens shrieked outside the grand hall, their wails spilling through the broken windows and bouncing against the vaulted ceilings. Guests—politicians, bankers, spouses—huddled in corners, their gowns and tuxedos stained with someone else’s terror.Livia stood near the edge of the ballroom, her heels sticky with red. She’d wrapped her arms tightly across her chest, though not from the chill. It was to hold herself steady, to keep the tremor from showing. All eyes kept darting to her: the woman who had faced Russo under the chandeliers, who’d turned confession into defiance, who’d walked through fire without flinching.Inside, she was unravelling.Alessandro’s hand found her elbow, grounding her. His voice was low, meant only for her:“You don’t have to stay here. The cameras will eat this alive. They’ll make you the face of it.”Livia tilted he

Silencing the MouthClara tugged her hood tighter, her notebook pressed against her chest as though ink could shield her from the shadows. The rain fell steady, hissing on the neon-lit streets of Milan. Every step home felt heavier since the gala. The article had made her name burn across the city, but now the flame felt too bright. Too exposed.She glanced behind her—again. A black car idled at the corner, headlights dim. Was it paranoia, or patience? She ducked into her apartment building, the lock sticking before it clicked shut. Safe. For now.Inside, she dropped her bag and slid down the door, her pulse still racing. She told herself she was fine. She told herself the article had been worth it. But when her phone buzzed with an unknown number, she jumped.Stop writing. Or we stop you.Her throat went dry. She deleted the message, though her hands shook. And yet, after a long minute, she opened her laptop again. If she stopped now, Russo won.Across the city, Russo stubbed his ciga