Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Revenge Of The Boss: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

The morning after the barbecue, Vito showed up at Don Mimmo's with a freshly ironed shirt and a serious face.The old man was sitting in the usual back room of the Cala restaurant, intent on peeling a prickly pear with a sharp knife. The smell of sea and basil wafted in through the open windows."Don Mimmo, we've found the problem," Vito began bluntly. "Ponada knows how to work, I'll give him that, but he's started playing the sly on his own. He stole drugs, resold them to the people of Catania, paid off his gambling debts. I put him to attention by shooting him in the foot. Yesterday, that fetus tried to kill me on Viale della Libertà. Two shots in broad daylight. If I hadn't thrown myself to the ground, I'd be in a crate by now."Don Mimmo raised his small, cold eyes. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, continued peeling the fig, then spat a seed onto the floor."The boy is burned. There won't be any other options."He nodded to the gorilla on his right. "Tomorrow morning, Cic

The first ninety-two days were a slow drowning.They kept him in the hole, a cell so narrow he could touch both walls with his elbows. No window. One bulb that never quite went off, buzzing like a dying wasp. The mattress was a slab of foam soaked in other men’s sweat. Food came through the slot twice a day: grey soup that tasted of rust, a fist-sized lump of bread hard enough to break teeth. He ate because dying of hunger would have been too easy.Sleep wouldn’t come. When it did, it brought dreams of open sky and the sea at Ostia, then snapped him awake with the clang of a guard’s baton on the bars. Rage kept him warm. Rage and the promise he whispered to the concrete every night: I will walk out of here on my own legs, or they’ll carry me out in pieces.After three months the administration remembered he was human. They gave him the yard. Two hours a day, under a rectangle of pale winter sun hemmed in by thirty-foot walls topped with razor wire and watchful towers.The first time t

They transferred him that same night. Armored car, sirens blaring, four motorcycles in front, two in back. They dumped him in the EIV (Former Isolation for Violent) unit of Rebibbia prison, the famous "soft 41-bis" for the bosses who can no longer speak to anyone. Cell 14, basement. Reinforced door with electronic spyhole, rough concrete floor, bed bolted to the wall, steel toilet without a seat. No window. Just a 20x20cm ventilation grille three and a half meters above the ground. Outdoor time: just one hour a day, alone, in a 3x5 meter concrete box with a mesh roof and 360° cameras. Human contact: zero. Interviews: suspended for six months. Correspondence: read, photocopied, sometimes never delivered. But Vito smiled as he closed the door behind him. Because Muto still had the 42-meter rope, hidden in the normal arm. And because a tunnel led from that ventilation grille. Vito had known this for years. When he was a guest (innocently, of course) in 2011, he had spent s

Exactly thirty years had passed since the last successful escape from Rebibbia High Security Prison. The last was Vallanzasca in 1993. Since then: nothing. Reinforced walls, seismic sensors, dogs, drones, 41-bis, infrared cameras. No one had escaped alive. Yet, on the morning of January 24, 2026, cell 14 of the EIV was empty. The ventilation grille was open, the screws placed neatly on the floor like a calling card. In the tunnel they found only a cleanly cut piece of mountaineering rope and a phrase scratched with a nail into the concrete: "I'll come back for everything." The newspapers went wild. "THE GHOST OF REBIBBIA" "DON VITO RIZZUTO ESCAPES 41-BIS LIKE A RAT IN THE SEWERS" "He was sick, old, finished... and instead he flew away." The police searched Rome for three days. Helicopters, checkpoints on the Tiburtina, sniffer dogs in the sewers. Nothing. No fingerprints, no cameras had captured him. Only the white Doblò with Croatian plates found burned near Tor Cerv

My first real assignment came down like a verdict from the old men upstairs. They didn’t ask if I was ready; they simply told me what needed to be done. I had to take back a string of locations we’d lost—some in Palermo itself, where our name still carried weight, others out east in the Catania area, and more scattered along the coast where the sea wind carries the smell of salt and diesel. Business had gone quiet in those places. Too quiet. Money wasn’t moving the way it should, and when money stops, respect follows close behind.The three pillars that keep a clan alive are the same everywhere: drugs, prostitution, and guns. Of the three, guns matter most. You can traffic heroin or run girls without much firepower if the territory is calm, but the moment someone decides to challenge you, everything rests on what you can put in your soldiers’ hands. Automatic rifles, machine pistols, grenades—those are the votes that count in our elections. Without them, you’re just a loud voice beggi