All Chapters of The Don's Forbidden Muse: Chapter 91 - Chapter 97

AlessandroAfter that phone call with Emilia, I’ve felt stuck ever since. I don’t know what to do. Before I took over the reign of the East mafiadome—just before I married Emilia—the queen was already on top of the food chain. There were rumors about how ruthless she was, how evil she was. The things she used to do. She was the lowest of the barrel when it came to cruelty. I didn’t think there was anything beyond her in terms of the evil she was capable of. She would kill without mercy, deal the worst drugs, and human and sex trafficking were part of her trade.So when I married Maria, I swore to change all that. I vowed to be ruthless, but not ruthless like her. I wanted to make things right—and I did.By doing so, I threatened her, and she fought back. There is nothing worse than fighting someone you don’t truly know.The thing is, before her, her father ruled. He supposedly only had sons—or so we thought.

I am shaking as I stare at the pool of blood on the floor next to my father’s leg, which keeps growing larger with every passing second. His face is pale, and he is starting to get weaker. I’m trying to hold back my tears, wishing I could help him, but I can’t move. My body feels like it’s chained to this seat, my fists trembling in place on my lap.“Okay, I’ll ask again,” Emilia’s sharp voice cuts through the air, making my heart race even faster. “Who do you have resentment for in this room, Principessa?” she asks in a mocking voice.My throat is dry, my voice barely above a whisper as I stammer. “Maria.”I hear Maria scoff at the other end of the room. “Bitch,” she mutters under her breath, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.I swallow hard, trying not to look in her direction. Emilia leans forward, clearly intrigued. “Oh, now this is getting interest

The restaurant is quiet. Too quiet. I’m seated at the center of it, watching the soft shadows cast across the empty tables around me by the flickering candlelight. The dress delivered earlier fits like a glove, hugging my curves and making me feel beautiful, but I’m slowly starting to feel less and less beautiful as time keeps passing by. Sitting here alone in this massive restaurant feels uncomfortable.I swirl the wine in my glass, the rich red liquid catching the light. I sigh and take a sip. It’s my third—or is it my fourth? I’ve lost count. I don’t normally get drunk on wine, but if I keep taking one glass after another, I’ll be tipsy by the time this date even starts. I glance at my phone for the umpteenth time, the screen lighting up with the same message he sent over forty-five minutes ago:I’ll be late, but I’m on my way. Order something, love.That word love feels hollow now. I check the time again,

One year laterThe soft click of the camera is the only sound in the room as I lean in closer, adjusting the angle to capture the perfect shot. My client is seated on the velvet chaise, draped in delicate lace. Her confidence radiates through the lens, and she is beautiful. The natural light streaming through the tall windows bathes her in a warm glow, highlighting every curve and detail.“Beautiful,” I murmur in a steady voice as I guide her. “Tilt your chin slightly… yes, just like that. Perfect.”This is my world now. My studio, my work, my passion. It’s been over a year and a half since I found my footing in this country, and my boudoir photography has taken off in ways I never imagined. Had someone told me I would stay here and make it my home after all the tragedies that happened, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am. High-end clients, features in glossy magazines—it’s everything I dreamed of an