Todos los capítulos de TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS: Capítulo 91 - Capítulo 100

The morning air in Italy carried a sharp chill, slicing through the open window of Jeremiah’s private office. He barely noticed, hunched at his desk, fingers drumming hard on the polished wood, jaw locked tight with frustration. The room smelled of old leather and cigar smoke, a faint tang of espresso lingering from a cup gone cold hours ago. Papers cluttered the desk—ledgers, bank slips, scribbled notes—all screaming trouble.For weeks, shit had been shifting under him, slow and sneaky, but today, the cracks split wide open. Bank transactions didn’t match—money vanishing, first in trickles, now in floods. Suppliers who’d jumped at his call were stalling, shipments delayed with no word, excuses piling up like trash. Worst of all, his best guys—men he’d trusted with his life—were ghosting him. Phones rang out, texts sat unanswered, or they fed him vague bullshit about “family stuff” or “laying low.” It didn’t add up.Jeremiah leaned back, chair creaking loud, rubbing his eyes with ro

The night air pressed thick and cold, heavy with a tension you could choke on, as Jeremy’s convoy cut through the city’s back streets—black SUVs carving a path down dim, potholed roads toward the old warehouse where it all started. Engines growled low, a steady rumble bouncing off crumbling brick and rusted shutters, but inside the lead truck, it was dead quiet. Jeremy sat shotgun, staring out the tinted window, fingers drumming hard on his thigh—short, sharp taps, like a bomb ticking down. His mind churned—fury boiling hot, thoughts slamming into each other, looking for a way out.Beside him, Jeremiah rode silent, stiff as a board. Not the same quiet, though—his was heavier, loaded with shit he couldn’t say. Jeremy didn’t look at him, just kept his eyes on the passing blur of streetlights and shadows, but the air between them crackled anyway. He exhaled slow, a hiss through his teeth, before breaking the hush, voice low and edged with something nasty.“X,” he said, still staring out

Jeremiah wasn’t built for patience. For years, he’d been the shadow behind Jeremy Cali’s throne—second fiddle, the guy who worked the dark corners while Jeremy soaked up the spotlight. He’d swallowed it, gritted his teeth, played the loyal soldier. But not anymore. Kenya changed everything—watching Jeremy scramble, still barking orders, still king while Jeremiah stayed a grunt in his army. He was done being a pawn.So he’d built his own game—quiet, careful, brutal. A network with no Cali strings attached, at least not on paper. Deals in backrooms, cash funneled through ghost accounts, muscle hired from shadows. It grew fast, ruthless, his own empire carved out under the radar. But lately, it was crumbling—piece by jagged piece.First, a shipment vanished in Amsterdam—crates of product gone, no trace. Then Hong Kong blew up—a money-laundering gig exposed, cops sniffing too close. Now, Naples—a warehouse torched to ash. Jeremiah stood in the wreckage, boots crunching charred debris,

The warehouse air hung thick as usual—gun oil, sweat, and rust mixing into a stench that stuck in your throat. Dim bulbs buzzed overhead, throwing long, rough shadows across steel walls pocked with dents.Jeremy sat at the head of a beat-up table—splintered wood, scarred from knives and fists—fingers drumming a hard, steady beat as he listened.Flinco stood across, laying out the attack plan, voice smooth and cold, every word clipped like a blade. Jeremiah hung back, arms crossed tight, face blank as stone.The room was packed with killers—guys who’d spilled blood in alleys, broken bones on backstreets, lived rough and mean. Jeremy’s crew, Flinco’s muscle—all hard eyes and scarred hands, no strangers to death. But this wasn’t some mob hit, quick and dirty. This was a gut punch at a U.S. stronghold—the CIA’s watch house. If they screwed up, no deals, no talks—just a bullet or a cell, and probably both.Jeremy’s gaze raked the room—his men, Flinco’s, a mix of loyalty and greed, all loc

The wind sliced through the night, razor-sharp and bitter, cutting across the outskirts of Rome like a bayonet through flesh. The sky hung pitch black, a void swallowing the rugged hills and the abandoned industrial zone below. Nestled in the shadows stood the CIA watch house—a squat, fortified bunker of concrete and steel, its silhouette barely breaking the horizon. Flinco’s strike team moved first—eight operators, Tier 1 ghosts in black tactical gear, NVGs flipped down over their eyes, glowing green in the gloom. They slipped into the murky waters flanking the compound, wetsuits hugging tight, suppressed HK MP5s slung across their chests. Their dive boots hit the damp earth silent as death—no splash, no crunch—just a ripple fading fast. They’d drilled this op to muscle memory: infil via the drainage canal, 300 meters to the perimeter fence, breach at 0200. Every step locked, every angle clocked.A few hundred meters west, Jeremy’s crew—six shooters, ex-mercs and Mafia muscle—clos