Lahat ng Kabanata ng TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS: Kabanata 131 - Kabanata 140

The Cali estate’s dining hall stretched long and opulent, a polished walnut table running twenty feet under a chandelier dripping crystal, its light bouncing off gilded walls. Jeremy stood at the head, faded navy sweater taut over his frame, hands gripping the chair’s carved back; he’d retreated here after Elena and JJ’s chopper roared away, the echo of their goodbye a knife in his ribs. This wasn’t the war room’s cold strategy den—here, history hung heavy, portraits of stern Cali dons glaring from above. Monroe’s task force stormed through like a plague—SWAT boots thudding, CIA techs flipping silverware drawers, state police tearing cushions in the adjacent parlor. Choppers hovered low, their thump a heartbeat rattling the glass. An hour in, and nothing—not a grain of coke, not a cigarette stub, not a weird-looking dollar bill.Monroe paced the hall’s threshold, gray trench coat swinging, his growl cutting through the clatter; his face was stone, but his eyes betrayed a flicker—d

Elena's POVI stand by the towering window of the safehouse, my taupe sweater brushing my wrists, staring out at the woods that hug Luxembourg’s outskirts. Rue des Capucins winds here, a narrow lane threading past the city’s medieval charm. Cobblestone streets, pastel facades, the distant clang of church bells from the old town spills into this quiet part where civilization seems to fade. I wonder how many houses like this he owns. Or in fact, how many properties? It's insane all i still don't know.Beyond the lawn, pines and oaks rise thick, their bark rough and resinous, a natural wall between us and the world; I catch the faint hum of a tractor from a vineyard a mile off, the only sign of life past the trees. Luxembourg City’s glow flickers faintly in the distance—towers and bridges perched on cliffs above the Alzette River—but here, we’re cocooned, nearly lost in the neck of the woods. The house itself is a marvel—a two-story of weathered limestone and smoked glass, its steeply

The intersection on Via della Liberta was a madhouse—metal twisted into grotesque shapes, glass glittering like shattered stars across the asphalt. Jeremy’s Maybach, a sleek black predator, had T-boned a silver Camry, its hood crumpled inward like a fist had punched through its heart. The impact had flung both cars sideways, the Maybach’s grille buried in the Camry’s passenger side, a tangle of steel and blood steaming in the cool Sicilian night. Sirens wailed—a rapid response team already swarming—paramedics in neon vests darting through the chaos, their boots crunching glass; a fire truck’s hose hissed, water pooling red under flickering streetlights. The air stank of gasoline and burnt rubber, thick with the metallic tang of blood; a child’s scream pierced the din—high, raw, unending.The Camry was a tomb; its driver—a man, thirtyish, dark hair matted with gore—slumped over the wheel, neck snapped at an angle no spine could survive; his wife beside him stared blank, her face a m

Cali estate, night after the accident (12 hours post-crash) Elena's POVThe nurses at the hospital had nudged me out—hands soft but insistent, voices weary from the night’s toll. “Go home, Ma, get some rest,” one murmured, her badge glinting under the harsh lights. “At least grab a change of clothes, you need a break.” I’d mumbled agreement, too numb to argue. JJ was heavy in my arms, his tear-damp cheeks pressed to mine. Now I’m back at the Cali estate. 12 hours since the world cracked open with Jeremy’s crash and Mama’s fall—and guilt’s a beast gnawing my bones. I stagger into the upstairs hall, my taupe sweater sour with sweat and tears, sticking to me like regret. Bags slump across the hardwood—half-unzipped, spilling socks and JJ’s stuffed bear, its lone eye watching me fall apart. The air hangs thick—old wood, faint wax polish—and JJ’s cries bounce off the high ceiling, a jagged echo of my own mess.I drop to the floor, knees smacking hard, clutching JJ tight as he writh

Dr. Alexandra's POVI’m splintering, 48 hours without sleep, my body a trembling wreck on the edge of collapse. Coffee’s a bitter sludge coating my tongue, cold in a chipped mug I’ve clutched too long, its rancid taste the only anchor keeping me from crumbling. It’s been 24 hours since Jeremy Cali’s crash tore him apart and Mama’s fall landed her in my shaking hands, and Palermo General’s a hellscape ready to swallow me whole. I stand in the scrub room, water scalding my forearms until they sting red, soap sudsing pink as it swirls down the drain, the antiseptic reek clawing my throat. Jeremy’s lungs are bleeding again, glass we missed in the first surgery slicing deeper, and I’m about to carve him open a second time. My hands tremble, knuckles scraped raw, and I choke out a curse, willing them still, but they won’t obey. I’m Dr. Alexandra Moretti, Central Europe’s most decorated surgeon, director of this gleaming hospital, yet today I’m a man unraveling, the Calis’ lives slippin