2025-10-27 03:07:19
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Putting an end to the MASK!
One day.That’s all that stood between Milan and the trial that could either bury the monsters—or bury the man who dared to fight them.Inside the safe house, the air was thick with something that didn’t need to be named. It was tension, the kind that clings to your lungs and tastes like metal. Dante sat by the monitors, jaw tight, eyes flicking between camera feeds. Calvin cleaned his gun for the fifth time, movements sharp, deliberate. Elena paced, restless, her boots echoing against the floor. And Marco—bandaged, restless, alive by luck alone—drummed his fingers against his leg like he was keeping time with death.But Adrian hadn’t said a word.He’d been sitting at his desk since dawn, staring at a photo that had no right to still exist—Isabella’s photo. His mother. The woman whose voice had been the only thing strong enough to drown out the screams in his head. Her eyes still carried warmth, her smile still carried home.And then he stood with no words and no warning.It was just a
The Judge’s Gambit: THE LEGEND OF ORION VALTIERI
The news hit Milan like a thunderclap."ORION VALTIERI RETURNS AS PRESIDING JUDGE IN DE LUCA-MARCHESE TRIAL"The headline blazed across every screen in the city—from the cracked televisions in Quarto Oggiaro tenements to the polished displays in the penthouses of Porta Nuova.News vans swarmed the courthouse steps. Reporters shouted over each other, microphones thrust toward anyone who might know something. Social media exploded with the hashtag #GhostJudge.Orion Valtieri.The man who had vanished years ago, leaving behind only rumors and a legacy carved in blood and justice.Some said he'd been assassinated by the DeLucas. Others whispered he'd fled to South America with a suitcase full of evidence. A few claimed he'd simply grown tired of fighting a war he couldn't win.But now?Now he was back.And the city felt it in their bones.In the slums, the reaction was immediate.Women paused in the middle of cooking dinner, hands frozen over steaming pots. Men stopped playing cards in the
Hidden Agenda?
CHAPTER 31In the war room, the final sequence played across three monitors—Luka Voss’s hands hovering over the keyboard like a conductor before the symphony begins. Dante leaned in, eyes sharp, pulse steady despite the weight of what they’d just done.“It’s open,” Voss said, voice raw, cracked like old leather. “Banca Nobile’s core. Every vault and every offshore ledger. Every encrypted transfer from Salvatore to his puppets in Rome, Zurich, Belgrade.”Dante exhaled through his nose. “I can’t believe the incrackable was cracked. This is a record man!”Voss didn’t smile. Just stared at the screen—the digital skeleton of an empire laid bare. “I built these walls. I know where the cracks are and where the blood leaks.”Adrian stood behind them, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn’t speak and didn’t celebrate. Just watched as the final firewall collapsed, as account numbers blinked red, as transaction logs spilled into the light like entrails from a gutted beast.Seven operations.One
Final preparations and deadly silence
CHAPTER 30The safe house breathed like a living thing—low hum of servers, the scent of burnt coffee and old blood clinging to the concrete walls.Luka Voss sat hunched over Dante’s jury-rigged quantum decrypter, fingers flying across three keyboards at once.His eyes, sunken and shadowed from five years in Black Spire’s concrete womb, never left the cascading lines of code.Wires snaked from his workstation like veins feeding a mechanical heart. He didn’t blink and didn’t pause. Just tore through encryption protocols like a man digging his own grave.Marco leaned against the steel doorframe, arms crossed over his still-bandaged ribs."You look like a mad scientist who just found something strange in a spreadsheet," he called out, voice rough with exhaustion. "Any minute now you’ll cackle and summon lightning."Voss didn’t look up. His reply was a dry rasp, the voice of a man who’d forgotten how to speak above a whisper. "I’m not splitting atoms, ragazzo. I’m splitting the spine of Ban
Prison Break
CHAPTER 29Marco Bellanti's health is getting better than it was before. But instead of healing quietly, he spent his time testing Elena Rossi’s patience like a man playing Russian roulette with a loaded slap, again and again and again.Marco just never got tired of doing this every blessed day. It is like Elena’s slaps are like music to his ears. He just never got tired from receiving those.“You’re staring,” he said one evening again, lying on the cot, shirt off, ribs wrapped in white bandages. “Do I look better today, bella?”Elena didn’t look up from her tablet. “You look like something the cat dragged in. Then chewed on.”He grinned. “But still handsome enough to make you blush.”She snapped the tablet shut.And slapped him.Again ( It became a daily routine for Elena).The sound cracked through the medical wing like a gunshot. Dante, three rooms over, winced mid-type. Calvin smirked into his coffee.Marco touched his cheek, still smiling. “I’ll take that as a yes.”Elena leaned
Unknown new player?
CHAPTER 28Days passed.The new safe house—hidden deep in the industrial outskirts of Milan, a fortress built from steel, concrete, and paranoia—had become a warren of tension, secrets, and one very annoying patient.Marco Bellanti was healing.And that was a problem.Because a wounded Marco was dangerous.A healed Marco?Unbearable.Elena had taken on the role of caretaker with grim determination—changing bandages, administering painkillers, forcing food down his throat like he was a disobedient child. But Marco repaid her kindness the only way he knew how: by being an insufferable, grinning, shameless idiot.“You look tired, bella,” he’d say, eyes closed, voice dripping with fake concern. “Why don’t you lie down with me? I’ll keep you warm. I know you will love it!”She’d slap him.Again.And again.Each time harder.One afternoon, the sound cracked through the entire compound—a sharp, brutal slap that echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot. Dante, mid-sip of espresso, choked.
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