Claimed By The Mafia Rogue King (Snow and Cupid) novel Chapter 283

Chapter 283

Chapter 283

Snowflakes

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I have only ever heard of the Moon Tower in hushed stories and seen its distant peak piercing the sky like a silver blade framed in glossy magazine spreads, flickering across late–night news reels during lunar festivals, or caught in the background of pack announcements.

Never once did I think I would ride toward it, let alone cross its threshold. I believed I had tasted every shade of holiness there was.

The immaculate stillness of the parish where Cupid and I made our quiet donation last month, where even the candles seemed to bow in reverence.

But this place… this place matched it too. Layer upon layer of sacredness so thick it pressed against my lungs and made every breath feel borrowed.

The Moon Tower stands where the moon goddess herself is said to linger, in the very heart of werewolf territory, far beyond any human border, cradled in a vast desert that glows silver under starlight.

The driveway unfurls endlessly, a pale ribbon cutting through dunes that shift like living things, until the tower itself rises, impossibly tall, carved from moon–kissed stone that drinks the night and gives it back as soft luminescence.

At the sacred gate, black iron woven with runes that pulse a faint, living blue guards step forward, hands raised in silent command.

Their eyes sweep the car, sharp and assessing, until they settle on Cupid. Recognition flashes. A single, respectful nod. The gate parts without sound.

Cupid guides the car around the final bend toward the painted white sector, where the air changes again lighter, sweeter, almost paradisiacal.

Lanterns sway from ancient olive branches, their flames steady and golden. People move along winding paths, some in flowing white linen, others in simple tunics smiling softly, speaking in low, melodic voices.

Children dart between them, laughing. And everywhere, werewolves shift freely, sleek forms leaping across low walls, silver fur catching moonlight, joyful howls rising into the night like songs.

I watch them with a sharp, aching envy that lodges in my throat. They run. They shift. They howl. My own wolf stays locked inside me silent, buried, forgotten and the sight of their freedom twists something deep in my chest.

Cupid pulls into a discreet garage carved into the hillside. He kills the engine, turns to me with quiet certainty.

“Let’s go. But barefoot.”

He slips off his boots right there in the driver’s seat. Desmond does the same silently, practiced.

Cupid circles to my door, opens it, and offers his hand. I kick off my shoes; the cool, smooth stone kisses my soles like a blessing. He leads me forward, Desmond a steady shadow at our backs.

We cross a short arched bridge over a shallow channel where water flows clear and silver, lit from below by submerged orbs that drift like captive moons.

The sound is gentle, ceaseless. A lullaby carved from time itself. At the far end rises a massive door of pale wood banded in silver,

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11:33 pm PPW

Chapter 283

Guards line either side, motionless, eyes forward, presence heavy with reverence.

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I slow without meaning to. My heart knocks hard against my ribs. What waits beyond? What truth will it drag into the light? What pain will it cost?

The door opens slowly, powerful, moved by something deeper than machinery. Guards remain statue–still as we pass between them. The moment we cross the threshold, the door closes with a soft, final thump that echoes like a second heartbeat.

And there she is.

An elderly woman waits at the corridor’s end. Tall, black–haired, dressed in flowing white linen that seems to glow at the edges as though woven from moonlight.

Her eyes find Desmond first. They soften instantly, filling with a love so fierce and unguarded it makes my throat close.

She crosses the space in swift strides and pulls him into her arms.

“My baby. My son.”

Desmond, always so contained closes his eyes and lets himself be held like something precious and fragile.

I realize then this is Aunt Bloom. Desmond’s mother. Cupid’s aunt. The high priestess who bent centuries of protocol to grant me an audience on twenty–four hours‘ notice.

She draws back, cups his face in both hands, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

“My goodness, you look lean. Is my brother too harsh on you?”

Her brother. Alpha Ruis Godlike.

Desmond gives the smallest shake of his head, no words needed. She smiles small, knowing, then turns to Cupid.

He bows low, deeper than I have ever seen him bow to anyone.

She steps forward and embraces him, not casually, but with careful reverence, as though touching something sacred, someone dangerous.

When she pulls back, her eyes shine with unfiltered pride, deep admiration, something close to awe.

“How have you been, son?”

Cupid keeps his head lowered.

“Pulling the pack, the family, the businesses together without being blood… it must weigh heavy. My brother told me how supportive you have been. Thank you. Thank you.”

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