All Chapters of The Mafia’s Angel Ordeal.: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

My head’s a dark alley, and the whispers never stop. Inside my skull, demons don’t just whisper—they give orders. Their voices, always winning—never quiet. My mind and heart were locked in a battlefield, warring over my true motive for questioning her. Was I really doing this to have her? The demons inside me hissed the answer, but I crushed their whispers.No. That was impossible.I stormed out of the kitchen, leaving her behind. My pulse pounded in my ears, my jaw locked so tight it could crack a molar. This feeling—I hadn’t felt it in years. Not since Russia. Twenty years ago, when I was still a boy among men in that brutal training camp, I had been untouchable with a gun—I could take out a moving target the size of a pin from a thousand yards away. But fists? That was where I lacked. Hand-to-hand combat was my weakness. I was the youngest in the program but had already climbed to Level 10 because of my skill with a gun. That was why they came for me in the woods that day. A pack

The silence of my deep slumber was bliss—until the sound of someone shattered it.I stirred, shifting against the soft sheets, my body still warm from the cocoon of sleep. I had waited. Waited like a fool, curled up on the bed, staring at the clock as midnight approached. Envisioning us together, whispering “Happy New Year” in the dim glow of our room, my lips tasting the brandy on his breath. But he never came.Pissed, I had thrown off my dress, slipped into short silk pyjamas, and gone to sleep, determined to let my attitude speak when he finally returned. If he wanted to ignore me, fine. Then—a footstep came.Heavy. Slow. Pacing the room.I was still half-asleep, but I knew it had to be him. Good. Let him see me in bed, not even bothering to acknowledge his presence. Let him grovel. He had to know I was angry. Maybe he had brought himself in quietly, hoping I wouldn’t lash out. Let him stew in my silence. But then I heard more. Two. Three. Four—too many for just Dontrell. My eyes

The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock and the slow, uneven breaths Dontrell tried to control. But I wasn’t going to let him. A low, erratic moan slipped from his lips as my heel pressed firmer against his arousal, the sharp point dragging along the outline of his hardened length making his body jerk. "Kitten, enough." His voice was rough, thick with need, edged with command. "I won’t repeat myself." A slow, wicked yet knowing smile curled my lips. "Why? You don’t like it?" My left hand remained on his collar, while my right moved deliberately down his torso, unbuttoning his shirt one by one. When the last button fell open, I splayed my palm across his bare chest, tracing the inked letters of my name just above his heart. My hand brushed over the tattoo, tracing my claim against his skin. His muscles tensed beneath my touch. "You're playing with fire." I dragged my nails to his navel. "Then burn for me, Dontrell." In a blink of an eye, he grabbed my wrist and

Dontrell’s body tensed, his senses on high alert, but his smirk didn’t falter. His dark eyes flickered with amusement, but there was a sharp and daring air about the way he stood unfazed."Dove," he drawled, tilting his head. "Are you holding me hostage?"I didn’t let go. My thighs still trembled from his ruthless claim. My palm became hot; my hand was too fragile for the way I forced it to harden against him. Yet—something inside me wouldn’t let him leave. Not yet.He grunted, but he didn’t pull his hands away from mine. "You’re acting like something bad is about to happen." I swallowed. A strange feeling crawled under my skin. It wasn’t paranoia; it was exhaustion—this beast of a man always fucked me like he wouldn’t fuck again in years; his experience in the field was top-notch. A slow, creeping sense of embarrassment slithered through me, but I spoke out anyway.“If you come back with that water, and I drink, eat, and recover, you’ll fuck me again, straight to the hospital."He l

The stench of death wasn’t here, but I swore I could smell it. With the way it glistened on the broadcast, tracing jagged patterns across the floor, seeping into cracks. The camera zoomed in—the crimson name glared back at me. My pulse pounded, a deafening roar against the eerie silence.Clayton stopped mid-step. The sound of the television seized him in place; his hand hovered on his cufflinks. The news anchor’s voice was clinical and detached as he continued his report—~“Authorities report that the victim was found bound to a chair with a knife plunged through her abdomen, impaling her straight through to the back of the chair. Pinning her to the seat.”~I exhaled sharply, my stomach knotting. My gaze locked onto the screen. The image of the lifeless girl, her delicate features frozen in a haunting stillness.“God.” I rasped, and my hand shot up, covering my mouth as bile rose in my throat. The reporter continued, her voice cold as she described the gruesome scene. The victim’s in