Todos los capítulos de The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen: Capítulo 191 - Capítulo 200

The garden at night is a jungle of shadows and scent.I leave the heavy, iron-scented air of the gym and step out into the cool breeze coming off the Mediterranean. The smell of jasmine is overwhelming here, cloying and sweet, mixing with the salt spray and the damp earth.This is Spadino’s domain.Inside the house, there are rules. There are walls. There are hierarchies.Out here, there is only the chase.I walk down the gravel path, my heels sinking slightly into the stones. I pull the silk robe tighter around myself, though the night isn't cold. It’s the anticipation that makes me shiver.I don't see him.I scan the rose bushes. I check the stone bench where we sat with Matteo. I look toward the cliffs.Nothing.Then, a rustle in the branches above me.I look up.Spadino drops.He lands in front of me with the grace of a cat and the grin of a devil. He is wearing a tuxedo, but the jacket is gone, the tie is gone, and the shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He is barefoot in

The private jet is a sleek, silver bullet waiting on the tarmac.It is 2:00 AM. The air at the private airfield smells of jet fuel and the sea breeze coming off the Tyrrhenian coast. The night is quiet, save for the high-pitched whine of the engines spooling up.I walk across the tarmac. I am still wearing the black dress from the ceremony, though I have kicked off my heels and am walking barefoot on the warm asphalt. My feet are sore from standing, from dancing, from ruling.My wolves flank me.Aureliano carries a single leather duffel bag. Ciro has a garment bag slung over his shoulder. Spadino is empty-handed, whistling a tune that sounds suspiciously like the wedding march, but faster.We board.The interior of the jet is cream leather and burl wood. It is a flying living room designed for billionaires who don't want to know they are thirty thousand feet in the air."Doors closing," the pilot announces from the cockpit.The heavy door seals with a pneumatic hiss. The pressure in t

The Mediterranean sun is a heavy, golden hand pressing me into the white leather cushion of the sun deck.It is noon. We are miles from the coast of Malta, drifting in a sea so blue it looks like spilled ink. There is no land in sight. There are no other boats. Just the infinite expanse of water and sky, and the sleek, sixty-foot yacht that cuts through it like a silver knife.I lie on my stomach, my bikini top untied to avoid tan lines. The heat soaks into my skin, baking the tension out of my muscles, turning my bones to liquid.For five years, I have lived in the shadows. I have lived in war rooms with blackout curtains and safe houses buried underground. I have forgotten what it feels like to just be in the light."You're burning," a deep voice rumbles above me.A shadow falls across my back, blocking the sun.Ciro.I don't open my eyes. "I'm baking," I correct lazily. "It feels good.""You're turning pink," he insists. "And if you burn, you peel. And if you peel, you complain."I

The sound of a zipper closing on a leather duffel bag is the sound of a vacation dying.It is sharp. Final.I stand in the center of the master bedroom in the villa. The glass walls are still open, letting in the sound of the ocean and the scent of jasmine, but the magic has drained out of the air. The moonlight no longer looks romantic; it looks like tactical illumination.Ten minutes ago, we were discussing mortality and wine. Now, we are discussing logistics and kill zones.Aureliano is on the phone. He is pacing the terrace, his voice a low, rapid-fire stream of Sicilian dialect that cuts through the night like a serrated knife. He has buttoned his shirt. He has put his shoes back on. The relaxed lover who swam naked in the sea is gone, replaced by the King who just realized someone is trying to pick the lock on his treasury.Spadino is throwing clothes into bags. He isn't folding them. He is crumpling expensive linen and silk and shoving them in with a violence that speaks to his

The restaurant is called L’Oro Nero. It sits on the forty-first floor of the Vitale Tower, directly below my office. It is neutral ground in name only; I own the tables, the wine, and the oxygen in the room.We have reserved the private dining room.The walls are glass, offering a panoramic view of the sunset bleeding over Palermo. The table is set with white linen, crystal, and silver.Besnik Kulla sits opposite me.He is wearing the same shiny suit from the photo, though up close, I can see the cheap stitching on the lapel. He is drinking a glass of Barolo like it is water, gulping it down without tasting the vintage.He has brought two guards. They stand by the door, trying to look menacing, but they are clearly uncomfortable. They know where they are. They are in the belly of the beast.My wolves are with me.Aureliano sits to my right. He is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of mine. His fingers brush my shoulder blade through the silk of my dress—a