Corrupted A Rosato & Dinunzio Novel Novels & Stories

I always thought he was heartless, and his change in attitude was confusing me more than I liked. “How are you feeling?” He asked. Surprisingly, the pain was almost gone. I still felt like I had been shot, but it was manageable. “I’m doing well, Nic. How long have I been out?” “Two days.” “You haven’t showered in two days. Those are clothes from our wedding.” “I couldn’t leave your side. I had to make sure you were feeling better. I should have protected you, and I failed at that.” Serena cleared her throat. She was married to Nero, Nico’s youngest brother. Nico was the eldest of the DeLuca brothers, followed by Adrian, who passed away, Enzo, the enforcer, and Nero, the New York King.

The two days leading up to the charity gala were pure torment. My body was a live wire, constantly humming with forbidden need. Every time I closed my eyes, Mr. Rossi’s text burned behind my lids: Beautiful tits and an even prettier pussy. Good girl. Those words had me waking up in the middle of the night with my fingers buried deep inside my soaked cunt, humping my pillow like a desperate slut while moaning his name instead of his son’s. My addiction had shifted, twisted into something darker, more dangerous. Nicolos was safe, familiar. His father was power incarnate—older, commanding, completely off-limits. And that only made me wetter.

I watch intently with my brows raised as he removes a sizable oil painting from its place on the wall, unveiling a hidden safe that had been seamlessly integrated into the structure. I pivot on my heel and survey the colossal collection of books that had escaped my memory until now. The tips of my fingers delicately graze the uppermost edges of the book spines as my eyes glide over the titles. My fingers hover over one book in particular. It's a book that is very improper in Alessandros’ collection. This book is a historical romance novel written by Sylvia Day. One of Roses’ all-time favourite authors. Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to slide the book out, “come here, tesoro.” I

*** We spent the afternoon at the bookstore down the street, because of course Alessio had to prove that he could, in fact, pick a better novel than I could. He was wrong. Obviously. “You can’t seriously think this is better than Austen,” I said, holding up my book in triumph. Alessio crossed his arms, giving me that infuriating smirk. “Rosa, The Count of Monte Cristo is a masterpiece.” “It’s long.” “It’s revenge.” I snorted. “Why am I not surprised?” His smirk widened. “What can I say? I have a type.” I arched a brow. “And what type is that?”

Dom touched the man’s collar, turned his head slightly and stopped cold. “Fuck. That’s Von. Vito Salvatore’s brother.” He stood still for a second, his blue eyes went wider and his hand raked through his thick brown hair. Then he shook his head, walked straight back to me. “You don’t have to worry,” he fell on his knees again, then kissed the tears off my cheeks. “It breaks my heart seeing you like this,” his breath trembled. “If I could, I’d bring down fire and brimstone to burn the moon for witnessing you like this. I’ll crush the Salvatores. Every last one. Please, please, don’t cry. I’ll clean it all up before anyone sees. I swear on my life, Rosa… this never happened. You’re not gonna t

The lottery shop had been directly above the leak point. The moment Daniel scratched open the ticket, he had already inhaled a trace amount of the gas. That was why he had become so obsessive, so insane, so willing to turn on everyone. And my grandmother's lightning-struck wood rosary had been protecting me from the gas all along. I looked down at my chest. The rosary, once a full string of beads, now had only three left. The car jolted along the highway. The driver suddenly slammed on the brakes, his face bloodless as he pointed ahead.

Especially in times when he really needed someone beside him. ____________ The next morning, once Nico had left for an urgent breakfast meeting, I found myself sitting beside Vittoria, the envelope I found that day tucked in my pocket. Earlier, I went through a few more of Alessandro’s journals and one thing was clear: he was a sick, dark man. He was pure evil which had nothing to do with being born in the world of crime. He thrived on that identity in fact. But I still hadn’t found anything about Rosa other than that letter. So if Vittoria knew something, maybe she can shed some light.

Camilla rolled her eyes as Paula played peacemaker, she was willing to bet that Paula was partially responsible for the deterioration of the friendship between Dante and Paolo. The door opened and Ferrante entered inside the room accompanied by Silvana. Camilla took one look at Ferrante and knew the poison was working. He looked drained and tired, they were dark circles underneath his eyes. "Ferrante, are you okay?" Antonio asked. "Yes, just tired, that's all" Ferrante replied as Silvana helped him get into his seat and sat down beside him.

You stopped somewhere and breathe heavily trying to catch our breath we go to breathe in and out at the same time then we ended up busting into laughter all of a sudden she stopped laughing and looked at me seriously. "Is something on my face why are you looking at me like that?" I asked confused at her behaviour. She shook her head, "something is not on your face but probably you would not be having a great time if you understand the gravity of what you have done for yourself." "What are you talking about what what have I done to myself talk to me listening to you is there something I don't know that you know?" I asked still confused. She nodded, "yes you just gave yourself a bad day and do

Elated, I pushed open the study door, only to find Damiano making love to Bianca Sorace—one was my husband, and the other the daughter of a rival mafia family. The sight of their intertwined bodies was sickening. From then on, any contact from the outside world made me feel physically nauseated. I would scrub my hands obsessively, shower frantically, and refuse to touch anything that hadn't been sterilized at high temperature. Damiano blamed it on my hormones. He humored me, participating in that charade of atonement—until tonight, when he finally grew tired of the act. "Look at you—you're no different than a madwoman!" he bellowed through the living room, urging his men into a frenzy of rev