Lahat ng Kabanata ng TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS: Kabanata 121 - Kabanata 130

The Sicilian dusk painted the Cali estate in fiery streaks, the cliffs dropping sharp to a restless sea. Jeremy leaned against the terrace railing, a glass of grappa dangling from his fingers, its bite cutting through the salty breeze. He wore a faded denim shirt—unbuttoned halfway, sleeves bunched at the elbows—over scuffed trousers, rough around the edges but steady as stone. The Naples rally still thrummed in his blood, a wild roar he could feel, but those smear ads—“Murderer in Waiting”—scraped at his calm like a dull blade. He tilted the glass, watching the waves churn, when the crunch of boots on gravel snapped him alert.Travanto loomed out of the twilight, a hulking shadow in a rust-red coat, his fedora cocked low, a cigar glowing like a devil’s eye. “Cali,” he growled, voice thick as wet gravel, planting himself beside the rail. “You’re rattling cages that don’t like noise.”Jeremy flashed a crooked grin, turning slow. “Trav, you old hound—what’s got you sniffing my doorstep

In the cluttered campaign office in Rome, Donnie Greco slouched at a corner desk, a stack of polling data ignored beside him. The air stank of burnt coffee and desperation, but Donnie’s mind was elsewhere—back to his dirt-poor days in Naples, scraping by in a crumbling tenement, his ma crying over bills. He had clawed out, a street kid with a head for numbers, until Jeremy Cali spotted him at a dive bar six years back, tossing dice with sharper instincts than the pros. “You’re wasting it here,” Jeremy had said, voice rough but sure, slapping a wad of cash on the table. “Study—make something.” That cash turned into a full ride at Universidad de Salamanca—undergrad and a master’s in political strategy, paid by Jeremy’s dime. Donnie owed him everything—his slick navy blazer, his polished boots, his life off the gutter. The Mafia had raised him, sure, but Jeremy had forged him. Now, stuck on the President’s team as a mole, he watched Sal’s betrayal unfold, and his loyalty burned.Donn

The President burned hotter than a furnace. He paced the hardwood floor, his suit—deep crimson, edges frayed—swinging like a cape, scotch glass clutched tight enough to crack. The watch house hit had gutted him—Sal dead, seven guards down, Jeremy’s shadow everywhere but untouchable. His team sat rigid around the conference table—Maria in a sleek black turtleneck, Luca chewing his toothpick, Sofia hunched over her laptop—watching him unravel.“He’s a dead man!” the President roared, slamming the glass down, amber splashing across poll sheets. “Jeremy Cali butchered my witness—my edge—and you’re all just sitting there? I want him nailed—today!”Maria leaned forward, voice calm but firm, a lawyer’s edge cutting through. “Sir, we’ve got no proof—nothing hard. Our tech guys are digging—cameras, feeds, anything. Give ‘em ‘til end of day—something concrete.”“End of day?” he barked, whirling on her, eyes wild. “I don’t have ‘til end of day! That bastard’s laughing—mocking me on my own turf

The hospital room was a sterile vault, its walls a stark white that swallowed sound, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint hum of machines. Rain lashed the window, a cold March downpour drenching the city—typical Roman weather this season, wet and unyielding, turning cobblestones slick. Agent Hammer lay knotted in sheets, a husk of his former self, tubes threading his arms, chest rising slow under the monitor’s steady beep. His eyes cracked open, groggy, the world a haze of light and ache. Fragments stabbed his mind—Jeremy’s sharp grin, a gunshot’s echo, a shadow slipping away. Betrayal, maybe; he couldn’t hold it. His throat scraped raw as he mumbled, voice a broken thread. “Face… loud… gone.”A nurse jolted, her clipboard hitting the floor soft; she lunged for the phone, fingers trembling. “He’s awake—Hammer’s awake,” she said, voice tight. An hour later, Director Monroe barreled in, a pitbull in a gray trench coat, rain dripping from his brim onto the tiles. His eyes blaz

The Rome alley was a black gash, rain-soaked stones slick under a stuttering streetlamp, the air thick with damp rot.Donnie Greco lurched through it, his charcoal blazer torn at the shoulder, breath rasping as he threw a wild glance back. He’d ditched the campaign office an hour ago. Luca’s “robbery” jab still a splinter in his skull—but the streets had claws tonight. He’d sensed the tail, the boots’ echo; now they’d struck.Luca erupted from the dark, a juggernaut in a drenched denim jacket, hands snagging Donnie’s collar. He slammed him into the wall; brick smashed Donnie’s spine, rain biting his face as his head snapped back, teeth clacking hard. “Who’re you feeding, Greco?” Luca snarled, voice a guttural roar over the storm’s hiss. “Cali’s got us spinning—you’re the leak, huh?”Donnie’s world blurred, blood flooding his mouth; he spat it onto the wet stone, stalling desperate. “I don’t—” Luca’s fist crashed into his jaw, a hammer blow spinning him sideways; he hit the wall agai