Todos los capítulos de The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Capítulo 171 - Capítulo 180

The frantic energy of the car ride evaporates the moment the heavy oak door of the master suite clicks shut.Downstairs, the house is alive with the low hum of the night shift—guards changing posts, the faint murmur of the television in the staff quarters. But in here, the silence is thick and waiting.I stand in the center of the room. My heart is beating a heavy, deliberate rhythm against my ribs.Aureliano and Ciro did not follow us inside.They stopped at the threshold. Aureliano kissed my forehead—a benediction—and Ciro squeezed my shoulder, his dark eyes promising that the perimeter, and the baby, were secure. They stepped back. They gave us the room.They knew.They saw the way Spadino looked at me in the car. They saw the way I leaned into his touch. They understood that the bridge back to my own body had to be crossed with the man who worshiped the ruins.Spadino stands by the door.He isn't moving. He isn't bouncing on his heels or spinning a knife. The chaotic energy that u

The photograph on the table is grainy, taken with a long-range lens through a rainy windshield.It shows a man getting into a Fiat in a dirty alley in Naples. He is young, maybe twenty-five. He has the dark, heavy brow of the Grecos and the desperate, hollow cheeks of a man who has lost his kingdom."Alessandro Greco," Ciro rumbles.He stands behind my chair, his presence a heavy, heated wall shielding my back. His hand rests on my shoulder, his thumb digging into the muscle near my neck, a constant, grounding pressure. He is tense. I can feel the vibration of his rage traveling through his arm into my body."The youngest cousin," Aureliano adds. He is pacing the length of the War Room, a glass of water in his hand that looks like it’s about to shatter under his grip. "We thought he fled to Argentina.""He came back," Spadino says from the corner. He is spinning a coin on the metal filing cabinet. Whirrr. Slap. Whirrr. Slap. "And he brought friends."I stare at the photo.Alessandro G

The recoil of the Kel-Tec travels up my arm, a sharp, violent jolt that rattles my teeth.It is a feeling of absolute power.The lead attacker, the man who was reaching for the empty stroller with hands meant to steal my life, stops dead. A red blossom explodes in the center of his chest. His eyes go wide, the ski mask stretching over a mouth opening in a silent scream.He drops. He hits the gravel path with a heavy, wet thud that vibrates through the soles of my sandals.The world fractures into chaos."Contact!" someone screams.The other three men freeze. They look at their fallen leader. They look at me—the mother in the cream linen dress holding a smoking submachine gun.They hesitate.That hesitation is their death sentence."Burn them," Aureliano’s voice growls in my ear, a dark command that triggers the detonator in my left hand.I press the button.The stroller explodes.It isn't a fragmentation grenade; we didn't want shrapnel flying toward me. It is a flashbang, rigged with

The basement is a cold place to die.The prisoner knows it. I can smell the realization coming off him in waves—a sour, chemical stench of adrenaline converting into despair. He is kneeling on the concrete, his hands bound behind his back with plastic zip ties that cut into his wrists.My pistol is still aimed at his knee."Talk," I said.But he doesn't have intel. He doesn't have codes or safe house locations. He is the last rat on a sinking ship, and he knows the water is already over his head."I have nothing," he sobs, his body curling inward. "Sofia is dead. The cousins are dead. I'm just a driver. I have a family."He looks up at me. His eyes latch onto my stomach—flat now, but he remembers the stroller. He remembers the baby he came to steal.He sees an opening. A weakness."You're a mother," he pleads. His voice is wet, trembling. "You have a child. You know what it is to love something. Have mercy. Please. For your baby's sake, don't kill me."The words hang in the damp air.

The Cathedral of Palermo is a beast of stone and history. It rises from the city streets like a mountain, its Arab-Norman arches and Gothic towers casting long shadows over the souls of the faithful and the damned alike.Today, the doors are closed to the public.Today, the Cathedral belongs to the Vitales.The air inside is cool, heavy with the scent of frankincense and the centuries of prayers that have soaked into the sandstone walls. Light filters through the stained glass, painting the marble floor in pools of ruby, sapphire, and gold.The pews are full.Five hundred men and women sit in respectful silence. They are the captains, the lieutenants, the politicians, and the judges who make up the ecosystem of our power. They are wearing their best black suits, their wives dripping in diamonds that were likely paid for with blood money.They are not here for God. They are here for the heir.I stand at the altar.I am wearing white again—a structural silk suit that mimics the one I wo