Claimed By The Mafia Rogue King (Snow and Cupid) novel Chapter 213

Chapter 213

Snowflakes

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“There is no connection whatsoever between Mr. Lins and Feroz. Nothing at all that can link them together.”

“Not at all,” Cupid murmured, his voice carrying a weary edge that made my chest tighten.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead as snowflakes danced in the headlights.

I flipped the file open again, frowning deeper at the sparse details.

“Maybe they don’t have anything to do with one another directly.”

“So why kill him?” Desmond’s voice drifted from the backseat, quiet, thoughtful, and aimed straight at me.

A soft thrill rippled through me; it was the first time he’d spoken to me directly since I’d been with Cupid, without the usual guarded distance.

I shook my head, eyes dropping back to the stark crime–scene photos.

Mr. Lins sprawled on the study floor, blood pooled thick and dark, multiple stab wounds. clustered with furious precision. I swallowed hard as something clicked. Sharp, undeniable.

“What became of Mr. Lins‘ house after his death?” I asked.

Cupid and Desmond exchanged a quick glance in the rearview mirror before Cupid answered.

“Reports say the domestic staff still live there. And the housekeeper walked into H.O.W.L.. herself to confess which makes zero sense to me

“None to me either,” I murmured, decision crystallizing. “Cupid, drive. We’re going to Mr. Lins‘ house.”

He shot me a look like I’d suggested storming a fortress barefoot, but the corner of his mouth twitched because, deep down, he was just as reckless as I could be.

Without another word, he signaled and turned the car, tires humming against the snowy asphalt as we veered toward the outskirts.

The drive took hours, but I didn’t mind. Riding with Cupid always felt like stolen time, safe, charged, ours.

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Chapter 213

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At some point his hand drifted to my thigh, palm warm and possessive through the fabric of my jeans.

Heat bloomed low in my belly; I swallowed hard and turned to stare out the window, forcing my mind back to the case while my skin tingled beneath his touch.

At last we pulled up a block away from the address. The house loomed ahead. Once grand. now worn by time and neglect, its warm brick faded under the evening gloom.

A cluster of reporters lingered at the front gate like vultures, cameras ready.

“They’ll swarm you the second you step out,” Cupid said, eyeing them through the windshield with clear distaste.

I sighed.

“So how do we get in?”

I was still wondering when he reached across and unbuckled my seatbelt with a soft click.

“Back way. Come on.”

“But we can’t just…”

We did. Like shadows, like criminals ourselves, we slipped from the car and skirted the property line under the cover of dusk.

Cupid and Desmond moved with practiced ease, fluid, silent, as if they’d done this a hundred

times.

My pulse hammered with adrenaline as we crept along the side fence, snow muffling our

steps.

We rounded to the backyard overgrown garden, dim porch light flickering.

Desmond approached the rear door first and knocked firmly while Cupid positioned himself just behind, body coiled and ready for any threat. I hung back in the open space, drawing cold air into my lungs, trying to center myself.

But peace didn’t come. Instead, a deep unease slithered through me, something ancient and whispering, crawling along my veins. Divine. Calling.

“Snow?” Cupid’s voice reached me, low and urgent.

I turned to see the door cracked open, an older woman framed in the warm light, watching us cautiously. Desmond had already started speaking to her. Cupid beckoned me closer.

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Chapter 213

I approached and offered the woman a polite bow.

“I’m Snowflakes Frost, and…”

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“I know who you are,” she said quietly, eyes tired but kind. I swallowed, unsure how to proceed, when that same unnerving energy surged again, stronger now, tugging at me like an invisible thread.

Without thinking, I sidestepped her and slipped inside.

“Snow?” Cupid’s voice followed, sharper now, but it sounded distant, muffled by the sudden roar in my cars.

I moved through the dimly lit living room on instinct. A few children and an elderly man sat on worn furniture, faces etched with quiet grief.

I barely registered them, eyes scanning faded wallpaper, scuffed floors, everything matching the crime–scene photos almost perfectly.

A man died here.

My gaze dropped to the floorboards, and something pulled harder. I drifted down a narrow hallway, whispers brushing my mind like phantom fingers.

“Snow?” Cupid called again, closer this time. “You can’t just…”

His warning faded as I pushed open a heavy oak door. Cold air rushed in, raising goosebumps across my skin.

The study.

I stepped inside and stopped dead center, the exact spot where Mr. Lins had fallen. In my mind’s eye I saw it.

Blood sprayed across bookshelves, soaking into the rug, his body crumpled in agony. Stabbed over and over with intimate, frenzied rage.

Still no connection to Feroz?

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