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NINETY-NINE
Last Updated:
2025-09-16 01:05:43
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TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 120
Sheila St. Laurent’s Rome apartment buzzed with the low hum of the city night—car horns, distant shouts—filtering through her open balcony. She lounged on a sleek gray sofa, a glass of pinot noir in hand, her burgundy silk blouse catching the lamplight, unbuttoned just enough to hint at ease. The day’s work—taping teasers, dodging calls—had left her wired, but the knock at her door snapped her straight. She set the glass down, smoothing her tailored black slacks, and opened it to find Luca, toothpick in his mouth, his faded leather jacket scuffed from too many late nights.“Evening, Sheila,” he said, voice low, stepping in uninvited. “We need to talk.”She crossed her arms, leaning on the doorframe, green eyes sharp. “Luca. Twice in a week—people’ll think you’re sweet on me. What’s it this time?”He didn’t smile, pacing her hardwood floor. “Why haven’t you aired it? The smear—‘Cali’s a killer.’ We’ve got A LOT riding on this, and you’re sitting on it.”Sheila shut the door, her laugh
TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 119
The estate’s kitchen hummed with the clatter of pots and the rich scent of simmering ragu, but Mama wasn’t there for the meal. She’d wheeled in from the parlor, her navy shawl draped over her shoulders, eyes sharp as she cornered Father Bernard by the pantry door. The staff bustled around them—Elena among them, sleeves rolled, stirring a pot—but Mama’s voice cut through low and urgent. “Bernard, you’ve been fidgeting like a cat in a storm. Spill it—what’s got you?”Bernard adjusted his collar, sweat beading his brow despite the cool evening. “It’s Rosa,” he murmured, glancing at the staff to ensure no ears lingered. “She came to me—St. Agatha’s, last night. Scared half to death. Says she saw Jeremiah kill Catalina—hands on her throat, in the tub. Bruises, Mama—she swears it.”Mama’s grip tightened on her wheelchair arms, her face hardening to stone. “Kill her? Jeremiah? You’re sure she isn’t spinning tales?”Bernard shook his head, voice trembling but firm. “She’s no liar—too shaken
TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 118
Rosa slipped through the shadows of Palermo’s outskirts, her breath shallow, every rustle of the wind spiking her pulse. She’d run for days, dodging Jeremiah’s hounds, her stolen TV long abandoned in the slum shack. Now, under a moonless sky, she reached the far end of town—a modest parish where Father Bernard preached when he wasn’t at the estate. St. Agatha’s was a squat stone relic, its stained glass dim, the air heavy with incense and old wood. She’d seen him here once, months back, his gentle voice cutting through her quiet despair. If anyone’d listen—really listen—it was him.The side door creaked as she slipped in, hood up, heart pounding. Bernard knelt at the altar, head bowed, a lone candle flickering. She hesitated, then whispered, “Father?”He turned, startled, glasses slipping down his nose. “Rosa? Child, what—why are you here?” His voice softened, seeing her pale face, the fear in her eyes.She sank onto a pew, hands trembling. “I—I can’t run no more. I saw something… aw
TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 117
In a dimly lit office overlooking Rome’s Tiber River, the President sat hunched at his desk, the glow of a laptop casting shadows on his lined face. The deal was done—$15 million from Travanto, wired through a maze of offshore accounts, a secret lifeline to save his flagging campaign. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation as he clicked the confirmation—money in, blood out. Travanto’s voice had crackled over the phone an hour ago, all smug charm: “You’re welcome, amico. Spend it smart—Jeremy’s a beast.” The President rubbed his temples, the weight of the choice sinking in. It was dirty cash—mob cash—but Jeremy’s rally roar still echoed in his ears, and he couldn’t lose to that bastard.Luca stood by the window, toothpick rolling in his mouth, watching the city glitter. “If this leaks,” he said, voice low and taut, “we’re dead. Travanto’s a live wire—$15 million ties us to him, and the press’ll gut us.”The President leaned back, forcing a smirk. “It won’t leak. Wired clean—s
TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 116
Jeremiah moved like a predator, his limp barely slowing him as he stalked through the slums of Palermo, the night thick with salt air and the distant hum of the docks. The rally buzz still echoed in his head—Jeremy owning the stage, the crowd eating from his hand—but Jeremiah had his own game. Rosa’s call had lit a fuse, and he’d snuff it before it blew. Nico, his wiry second, had tracked her—hours of shaking down slum rats, flashing cash, twisting arms. “She’s holed up near the fish market,” Nico had said, voice low over the phone. “Shack by the pier—stolen TV, keeps to herself.” Jeremiah smirked, crushing his cigar stub under his boot. Time to end this.He found the shack—rotting wood, a flickering TV glowing through a cracked window. Inside, Rosa crouched, heart pounding, the rally’s replay on the stolen set her only light. She’d heard footsteps—too heavy, too deliberate—and her gut screamed run. The door crashed open, splintering, and Jeremiah loomed, his bulk filling the fram
TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS 115
The Palermo sun blazed over Piazza Pretoria, turning the cobblestones into a furnace, but the heat didn’t faze the thousands packed shoulder-to-shoulder—farmers, dockworkers, shopkeepers, kids on dads’ shoulders—all roaring for Jeremy Cali. The stage loomed, draped in red, white, and green, a massive “Italy First” banner snapping in the breeze. Jeremy strode out in his $2,500 Loro Piana blazer—navy, sleeves rolled, jeans scuffed just right—every inch the man of the people with a touch of grit. Elena flanked him, radiant in a cream sundress, her $3,000 custom Gucci wig—jet-black, layered, a sleek bob that screamed money but not arrogance—catching the light. JJ toddled between them, clutching her hand, his chubby fist waving at the crowd. The cheers hit like a tidal wave, shaking the square.Jeremy grabbed the mic, grin wide and fierce. “Sicily! Italy! You ready to take this country back?” The roar doubled, hats flying, fists pumping. Elena hoisted JJ up, his little arm flailing, and
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