Novels by Rich Pen

One by one, they entered the chamber—men carved from iron and blood, legends of their territories, each drunk on their own power. For the first time, I stood in this room not in secret, not hidden in the shadows like I had when Father wasn’t watching.No.This time, they would see me.This time, they'd remember my name.Their footsteps echoed against the marble floor, and I stood at the center, dressed in black. The gown clung to me like a second skin—sleek, dangerous, unapologetic. My arms folded across my chest, my spine straight as a blade.Then he walked in.The last to enter.Him.Mr. Stephen.The same brown eyes. Same unreadable stare. Same calm arrogance.His gaze locked onto mine, unmoving. Unnerving. I forced myself to look away before my hatred painted itself across my face. What the fuck was he doing here? An outsider among La Cupola? He wasn’t famiglia.My eyes flicked to Aucci. He stood beside me, hands behind his back, face blank.I gave him a subtle signal. Who let this

Rain poured over the cemetery like the heavens themselves were trying to wash away the blood. But nothing could clean this family. Not water. Not time.I stood still, unmoved, under the steady downpour. Dressed in black from bra top to ankle-length skirt, six inches high black heels, my skin glistened with cold droplets. My hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, every strand in place, unlike the storm behind my eyes.Mr. Aucci held the umbrella above my head like a loyal shadow, silent as always. Behind me, the crowd wept and whispered, their grief either fake or forced.I didn’t shed a tear.I didn’t need to.The wooden coffin lowered slowly into the earth. The final resting place of Don Ricci—my father, the devil in silk.My fingers clenched behind my back, nails biting into flesh. My heart burned, not with sorrow, but with fury. I didn’t just lose a father. I inherited a war.Voices drifted to my ears. Whispers behind black veils. Names. Suspicions. Loyalty in question. I heard eve

The moment my heels touched Italian soil, something inside me stirred.Seven years. Seven damn years away, and yet, nothing had really changed. The air still carried that mix of warm pavement, a hint of espresso and bullshit that only Italy could perfect. I took a slow breath, let it fill my lungs, and smiled. Not because I was happy but because I was home. In the most twisted, bloody, Ricci kind of way.Outside the airport, a fleet of black cars waited. Sleek, bulletproof, arrogant. All Father’s, no doubt. I didn’t need a sign....his scent lingered on the leather.As I walked toward them, I caught movement behind me. Three men, dark suits, darker stares. I raised a brow; the Don’s daughter isn’t safe anymore. Did Father send them to protect me or make sure I don’t run away?I slid into the car beside Elliot. He was quiet, like always, and I appreciated it. I leaned back, eyes closed, letting the silence settle.The drive to the hospital was smooth.We arrived fast. Too fast.Inside t

I hummed to myself, legs spread wider as I leaned back, head tilted, lips parted, eyes shut. The heat building inside me was impossible to ignore, thick and deep in my belly. My fingers dug into the bed sheets, toes curling with every flick of pleasure.“Fuck,” I groaned, low and drawn out, letting the intoxication drown me.Warm lips trailed along my shoulders, hands reached from behind to cup my breasts, kneading them as a tongue teased my skin. The tongue between my legs didn’t stop, curling, flicking, and diving deeper. I shivered, pleasure rolling through my spine.A hand lifted my chin, guiding my mouth into a kiss. My lips met his, slow, heated, full of need. My fingers tangled in his hair.Then I heard it.A voice. Movement.I broke the kiss and opened my eyes just as he nuzzled into my neck. My gaze shifted to the door.Dim yellow and blue lights painted the room. The only sound was my own labored breathing and the wet, obscene rhythm of tongues and hands working me over.The