All Chapters of Mafia Men VI - Alessandro's Ruin: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Viviane ☩═✦═☩ My head snapped toward Logan, his face already pale as he grabbed his jacket and his gun. “Flames are spreading fast. We need evac down here now!” The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My stomach dropped, my heart kicking into overdrive. I shot a glance at Fitz, and the look in his eyes told me he was thinking the same thing: This wasn’t an accident. "Move!" someone shouted, shoving past me. I grabbed Logan’s arm, pulling him closer. “The evidence... all of it—” “I know,” he cut me off, “We need to get there now.” We pushed through the confusion and the havoc, agents shouting into radios, others trying to direct staff toward the emergency exits. My mind raced, scenarios piling up in my head. As we reached the corridor leading to the evidence room, the smoke hit us like a physical force, burning my lungs and stinging my eyes, I coughed, clearing my throat. The heat radiating off the walls was suffocating, and the acrid smell of burning documents and p

Viviane ☩═✦═☩ The stale, metallic taste of burnt coffee clung to the air. The conference room was bitterly cold, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. I sat at the long table, my hands clenched tightly around a pen, every muscle in my body tensed up. Fitzgerald stood at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the faint scars on his forearms. He was a man of precision, order, and results, and this—this disaster—was the antithesis of everything he represented. "Let me make this clear," he began, "We are royally screwed. Years of work, gone. Every shred of evidence, incinerated. And now we’re sitting here with nothing but our goddamn hands out, praying someone from the Cosa Nostra will crack. The only reason the suspects are still in custody is the clockwork miracle of Miranda loopholes. Perez, give me the status update on the interrogations." Agent Perez was seated to Fitzgerald’s left. He adjusted his glasses and opened his binder, "We’ve interrog

Viviane ☩═✦═☩ The questions in my hands felt heavier than they should have. The words on the page seemed to glare back at me, each one approved by Eleanor Whitaker, the Director of the FBI. Her signature at the bottom wasn’t just ink—it was a direct order, a stamp of authority I couldn’t argue with. Whitaker didn’t sign off on anything without a reason. Every line had been reviewed, debated, and locked in to make sure we didn’t screw this up. My fingers trembled slightly, and I clenched them into fists to keep from showing weakness. “Viviane?” Logan’s voice pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glanced up, and he took a small step closer, lowering his voice, “You ready for this?” I nodded, but the motion felt stiff, robotic. “Yeah,” I whispered, and then I cleared my throat and forced more strength into my voice, “Yeah. Let’s do this.” He studied me for a moment longer, “You don't have to do this if you don't want to.” “I do,” I said, though my voice broke at the end.

Alessandro ☩══♛══☩ What most people didn’t understand about Alessandro was that when he loved a woman, it wasn’t halfway. It wasn’t casual, and it damn sure wasn’t temporary. When he gave his heart, it wasn’t just a piece of him, it was all of him. His loyalty, his passion, his strength, his darkest desires, his softest moments, everything he had. He didn’t hold back. With Francesca, it was the same. She was his first real taste of love—or so he thought. He’d built his life around her, trusted her in a way he didn’t trust anyone else. For a guy like Alessandro, trust wasn’t just rare, it was sacred. And she destroyed it with one stupid, selfish act. The image of her in his bed with one of his closest friends, still burned in his mind like a scar that refused to heal. He remembered the sound of her voice when she tried to explain, the excuses that fell apart the second they left her lips. It had gutted him in a way no bullet ever could. It took years to get over her. Years of

Viviane ☩═✦═☩ The chill of the New York night bit through my tactical gear as we huddled in the staging area just off a dirt road deep in the woods. The outskirts of the city felt worlds away from Manhattan. It was silent except for the rustle of leaves and the occasional low murmur of voices. Only the moonlight filtered through the trees, fell on the convoy of SUVs and black tactical vans. The warehouse sat less than a mile away. Recon photos showed it was heavily guarded, complete with cameras, floodlights, and armed guards stationed at all entrances. Fitz stood at the center of our team, as he went over the final details. A large map of the warehouse lay on the hood of one of the vehicles, illuminated by a red tactical light. “The perimeter team will secure the exits,” Fitz voiced, his gaze sweeping over the group, “We don’t want anyone slipping out into the woods. Entry team moves in through the west side. It’s the weakest point. Surveillance suggests minimal guards there