All Chapters of UNDER THE DON’S PROTECTION: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Luca’s POVThe decision to leave the atoll after forty-three years felt like pulling roots from soil that had grown thick around them. We packed light—old habits from lives once lived on the run. Weapons in concealed cases, false papers in hidden compartments, encrypted drives with Anya’s clinic coordinates and emergency contacts. The twins—sixteen now—stood on the dock as we boarded the chartered seaplane, Leo’s jaw set, Kai’s eyes wide but steady.“Bring back stories,” Leo said—voice trying for bravado.Kai hugged me last—arms tight. “Come back whole, Papa Luca.”Anya and Mara waited on the plane—Anya’s face pale but determined. “Elena’s signal pinged in Lagos three days ago. Small outbreak—targeted. Old Bratva safehouse district. She’s there. And she’s waiting.”The flight south took twenty-two hours—refueling in Dubai, then straight to Lagos executive strip. The city hit us like a memory: humid air thick with diesel and dust, skyline jagged against haze, the same chaotic energy th

Luca’s POVThe seaplane lifted off from the atoll’s lagoon at first light—water still mirror-calm, the bungalow shrinking to a white speck on stilts behind us. Forty-three years of quiet mornings, fishing lines, ledger numbers, and shared nights had rooted us there so deeply that leaving felt like amputation. But Elena’s message—delivered through Alessio’s dying hand—had cracked the surface of that peace. The swarm wasn’t dead. It had simply gone quiet. And now it wore Sofia’s daughter’s face.The flight south was long—twenty-two hours with refueling stops in Dubai and Abuja. We spoke little. Dante stared out at clouds, jaw tight. Rocco cleaned his knife with methodical strokes. I listened to Sofia’s last recording on loop through headphones—her voice young, tired, laughing: “Live loud. Love hard. Don’t let them win.”We landed at Lagos executive strip under a bruised sky—humid air thick with diesel and dust, the same chaotic energy that had once swallowed me whole. A black SUV waited

Luca’s POVThe seaplane skimmed the lagoon’s surface and settled with a soft hiss of water against floats. The bungalow waited exactly as we’d left it—teak deck silvered by years of salt and sun, garden spilling over railings in defiant color, fishing lines still coiled on the dock where Rocco had left them. Forty-three years of mornings and evenings, of coffee brewed at dawn and bodies tangled at midnight, had made this place more than shelter. It was the shape our hearts had taken when the world finally stopped trying to break them.Leo and Kai stood on the dock—seventeen now, taller than any of us, voices deep and sure. They had stayed behind with Mara’s sister while we chased Elena’s ghost through Rome. Leo reached me first—arms crushing, voice muffled against my shoulder. “You’re back.”Kai hugged Dante and Rocco together—long, silent—then turned to me. “We watched the feeds. Lagos news. No outbreak. No bodies. You stopped her.”Anya stepped off the plane last—face drawn but reli

Luca’s POVForty-four years had passed since the ice closed over the last node, and the atoll had become more than a refuge—it was the only world we still fully belonged to. The bungalow on stilts had aged with quiet dignity: teak weathered to deep silver-gray, roof tiles replaced fifteen times after cyclones, the garden now a lush, almost wild thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, lemongrass, curry leaf, jasmine, hibiscus, orchids, heliconia, plumeria, bird-of-paradise, and sea grape that Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons. Time had done its work on us too—gray threading through what remained of dark hair, lines deepening around eyes from years of squinting into sun and sea, joints that protested after long swims or heavy lifting. But the scars had faded to silver threads; the nightmares came rarely, and when they did, two sets of arms always waited to pull me back to the present.Mornings remained sacred

Luca’s POVForty-nine years had passed since the ice closed over the last node in Antarctica, and the atoll had become more than home—it was the only world we still fully belonged to. The bungalow on stilts had aged with quiet dignity: teak weathered to deep silver-gray, roof tiles replaced fourteen times after cyclones, the garden now a lush, almost wild thing that spilled over railings in bursts of bougainvillea, frangipani, lemongrass, curry leaf, jasmine, hibiscus, orchids, heliconia, plumeria, bird-of-paradise, and sea grape that Rocco still tended with the same patient focus he once gave to cleaning weapons. Time had done its work on us too—gray threading through what remained of dark hair, lines deepening around eyes from years of squinting into sun and sea, joints that protested after long swims or heavy lifting. But the scars had faded to silver threads; the nightmares came rarely, and when they did, two sets of arms always waited to pull me back to the present.Mornings rema