جميع فصول : الفصل -الفصل 110

Jeremy Cali didn’t wake up one day dreaming of a podium and a ballot. This wasn’t impulse—it was evolution, a predator adapting to a shifting jungle. His father and he built this empire from Sicilian dirt—blood, cash, and steel—running Cali Solar Energy as a legit front while his Mafia roots pumped dirty money through Italy’s veins. Politics wasn’t a leap; it was the next battlefield, a way to lock his grip tighter, wider, beyond the reach of cops or rivals. The watch house hit, the bank heist, the sanctions—they’d cornered him, sure, but they’d also lit a fuse. Jeremy didn’t bend; he struck.His strategy started where his strength always lay: control. He’d watched Italy’s system for years—weak leaders, corrupt deals, a government rotting from the inside. Bellini and his ilk were puppets—strings pulled by old money, unions, the Vatican. Jeremy saw a vacuum, a throne begging for someone with balls to take it. He wasn’t running to win an election—he was running to own the game, to tur

Sheila St. Laurent was a name that burned bright across Italy. Stunning, sharp, and vicious when she needed to be. Blonde hair cut razor-straight, green eyes that could slice through steel. She’d climbed from a dirt-poor village in Tuscany to the top of Europe’s media mountain—Harvard-trained, relentless, a newscaster who didn’t just report the news but broke it wide open. Her show, Break It Wide Open, aired at 9 p.m. every night, pulling millions of viewers from Rome to Paris. It was raw, loud, and fearless. People tuned in to see her shred politicians, expose crooks, and spit truth like venom.She wasn’t always this way. Born to a seamstress and a drunk, Sheila scrapped her way through school on scholarships and grit. Harvard came next—journalism degree, top of her class. She landed back in Italy with a fire in her gut. Her first gig was small, a local station, but she clawed up fast. Seven years ago, Break It Wide Open hit the airwaves. No one knew where the funding came from—not

The Cali estate glowed under a sea of lights. JJ’s first birthday party was a spectacle—lavish didn’t even cover it. The open field sprawled with tents, tables piled high with food, and a kiddie game zone that could shame Disneyland. Ferris wheels spun slow, bouncy castles jiggled with screaming kids, and clowns juggled fire. Men of all kinds mingled—suits, tattoos, gold chains—some local bosses, some just rich friends. Music thumped loud, a live band tearing through Sicilian tunes. The air smelled of roasted meat and sugar.Jeremy stood near the bar, sipping whiskey, eyes scanning the crowd. JJ’s laughter echoed somewhere close, the boy scampering through the chaos. Then Luca, the Chief of Staff, pushed through, face red, tie loose.“Jeremy,” Luca said, voice sharp. “You’re embarrassing him.”Jeremy smirked, swirling his drink. “He should’ve thought of that before the sanctions. I’m sure that was your idea, Luca.”Luca stepped closer, voice dropping. “Run under a different party, th

Manhattan buzzed under a gray sky, but inside Jeremy’s real estate firm, it was a war zone. Phones rang off the hook, papers flew, and voices shouted over each other. The big board in the conference room—usually packed with sales and deals—flashed red. Properties tanked.Deals fell through. Tenants bailed on leases worth millions. Jeremy’s empire in New York, a crown jewel of the Cali name, was crumbling fast.His VP, a wiry guy named Tony, burst into the office on a call from the states. “Boss, it’s a mess,” he said, sweat beading on his forehead. “Someone’s torching us. Permits yanked, inspectors crawling everywhere. Half our buyers pulled out overnight. We’re bleeding cash.”Jeremy leaned back in his chair at the Cali estate, sipping coffee, phone on speaker. “Who’s behind it?”“No clue,” Tony said. “It’s like a ghost hit us. No warnings, no demands—just chaos. We’re down $20 million already.”Jeremy’s jaw tightened. “Find out. Now. I don’t care who you shake down—get me a name.”“

The Cali estate basked in a lazy mid-afternoon glow. Mama and Elena had taken JJ shopping—new shoes, toys, whatever kept the kid happy. Father Bernard was off to the Vatican, some big episcopal meeting he couldn’t skip. Jeremiah thought he had the place to himself. He limped through the villa’s halls, the bullet wound in his waist tugging with every step. It was healing, but slow. He didn’t mind. Pain kept him sharp.He headed for his chambers, craving a drink and quiet. Then he heard it—soft humming, low and eerie, drifting from the east end. His gut tightened. No one should be there. He waved over two of his guys, lounging by the stairs. “Hear that?” he said, voice low. “Follow it.”They nodded, hands on their guns, and trailed him down the corridor. The humming grew—faint, tuneless, like a ghost’s whisper. It pulled them to a guest room, one nobody used. The door was cracked open. Jeremiah pushed it wide, stepping in slow.Catalina stood there, naked, back to him, about to climb i