Todos os capítulos de TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS: Capítulo 111 - Capítulo 120

The studio lights burned hot, but the air turned arctic the second that frantic voice cut off—“The current President has my support all the way bec—”—and static swallowed it whole. A collective gasp rippled through the crew, the crowd, the nation. Italy held its breath, eyes locked on Jeremy Cali, Presidential hopeful, sitting cool as ice with his toddler JJ dozing in his lap. Sheila St. Laurent, poised like a queen in her emerald blazer, didn’t flinch, but her green eyes glinted with a journalist’s hunger. The accusation—murder—hung like a blade.Jeremy let out a low, easy chuckle, shifting JJ’s weight as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, damn, Sheila,” he said, voice smooth as whiskey over gravel, “sounds like someone cracked open the cheap vino and decided to play prank caller. Gotta love a good grudge, huh?”Sheila tilted her head, fingers tapping her notes once, twice—a calm but relentless rhythm. “That’s one way to spin it, Jeremy. But murder? That’s not exactly a casual jab.

Sheila St. Laurent didn’t waste time. The second Break It Wide Open went off-air, she was in her office, door shut, phone pressed to her ear, the scent of a scoop lighting her up like a bloodhound. That call—breathless, raw, accusing Jeremy of murder—hadn’t just rattled the studio; it’d cracked open a story she couldn’t ignore. Her emerald blazer hung on the chair, sleeves rolled, blonde hair pulled back tight as she dialed her first contact—a grizzled ex-cop named Vito who owed her a favor.“Vito, it’s Sheila,” she said, voice sharp but warm. “Catalina Cali—old lady, Jeremy’s dad’s first wife. Died recently. What’s the word?”Vito coughed, gravelly over the line. “Heard she drowned—bathroom accident. Parkinson’s, they said. Shaky as hell, slipped under.”Sheila tapped her pen, eyes narrowing. “That’s the line. Dig deeper—anything funky? Nursing home ties, maybe?”“Gimme a day,” Vito rasped. “I’ll poke around.”She hung up, already dialing her next lead—a nurse she’d met covering a

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

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

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