Lahat ng Kabanata ng OWNED BY THE MAFIA BILLIONAIRE: Kabanata 71 - Kabanata 80

The Catskills thawed slowly, as if the land itself were reluctant to let go of winter. Muddy trails turned to soft earth; the ridge exhaled mist that lingered like held breath. Inside the safehouse, the woodstove still burned most evenings, but the windows stayed open longer each day—letting in birdsong, the drip of melting snow, the distant rumble of thaw-swollen streams.Marcus had claimed the small shed behind the house as his workspace. Nothing fancy: a workbench salvaged from the garage, a single bulb hanging from a cord, tools arranged with meticulous care. He spent hours there, carving—nothing ambitious, just small things. A spoon. A bowl. A tiny wooden bird with one wing slightly crooked, as though it had once flown too close to something sharp.Aiden found him there one afternoon, door ajar, sunlight slanting across the bench. Marcus didn’t look up when Aiden leaned in the doorway.“You’re good at that,” Aiden said.Marcus’s knife paused mid-stroke. “Used to carve when we wer

The first real thaw came in late March—reluctant, almost apologetic. Mud and meltwater turned the ridge paths into treacherous streams, but the air carried the sharp promise of green beneath the rot. The safehouse no longer felt like a fortress or a crucible. It felt like a house. Lived-in. Breathing. The woodstove still burned most evenings, but the windows stayed open longer each day, letting in birdsong, the drip of melting snow from the eaves, the distant rumble of thaw-swollen streams. Marcus had claimed the small shed behind the house as his workspace. Nothing fancy: a workbench salvaged from the garage, a single bulb hanging from a frayed cord, tools arranged with meticulous care on a pegboard he’d built himself. He spent hours there, carving—nothing ambitious, just small things. A spoon with a handle shaped like a twisted vine. A shallow bowl with faint ridges that caught the light like water ripples. A tiny wooden bird with one wing slightly crooked, as though it had once fl

The Catskills ridge had fully surrendered to spring by early May. Green had claimed every slope; the streams ran clear and loud; the air carried the sharp sweetness of pine resin and blooming wildflowers. The safehouse windows stood wide open most days, curtains fluttering in the breeze like flags of truce.Marcus had moved into the small guest cabin fifty yards down the path close enough to be family, far enough to breathe. He’d built it himself over six weeks: framing, roofing, wiring, plumbing. Silas had watched every nail, every cut, every connection. Aiden had helped when he could carrying lumber, holding beams steady silent acts of trust that felt louder than words.The cabin was simple. One room. Woodstove. Single bed. A workbench under the window where Marcus still carved. On the wall above it: three small wooden birds each one less crooked than the last. The third had both wings even, feathers detailed in fine knife strokes. It sat on a shelf now, facing the door like a senti

The Catskills summer arrived with sudden, fierce heat—air thick with the scent of sun-warmed pine and blooming honeysuckle. The ridge paths dried into hard-packed earth; the streams slowed to clear, lazy ribbons. The safehouse windows stayed open day and night now, letting in crickets, distant thunder, the occasional owl call that sounded almost like a question.Marcus had finished the guest cabin in April. By May he’d added a small porch—wide enough for a single chair and a side table. He sat there most evenings, carving by lantern light. The birds on his shelf had multiplied: five now, each one more precise, wings no longer crooked. The latest—a hawk mid-soar—perched on the windowsill facing the main house, as though watching over the path between the two buildings.Aiden walked that path every evening after dinner. Sometimes Silas joined him. Sometimes he went alone. Tonight he went alone.Marcus looked up when Aiden’s boots crunched on the gravel. He set the knife down, wiped his

The summer sun lingered long over the Catskills, turning the ridge into a canvas of deep green and gold. By July the days stretched lazy and warm; the nights cooled just enough for a blanket on the porch swing. The safehouse had settled into a rhythm that felt almost ordinary—coffee at dawn, work through the day, dinner together at the long table, quiet evenings where conversation came easy or not at all.Marcus had finished the garden. Rows of tomatoes, basil, zucchini, and peppers thrived behind the cabin. He’d built raised beds from scrap lumber, installed a drip irrigation line from the rain barrel. He worked bare-chested most afternoons, sweat carving paths through dust on his back, scars now pale silver threads against tanned skin. He never complained about the heat. He never asked for help. But when Aiden or Silas appeared with water or a cold beer, he accepted both with a quiet nod.Tonight they sat on the main porch after dinner. No bourbon. Just iced tea in mason jars sweati