Dante Russo Novels & Stories

Nora, and then Dante, then Emilio went next, speaking in Italian. Then it was Mariano's turn, and I wished he'd speak in English. I wanted to know what he was grateful for. "Sono grato per la mia famiglia, la Cosa Nostra, e la bella donna alla mia sinistra che fa il mio mondo completo. Sono grato perché ho tutto quello che mi serve, amore e felicità." ( I am grateful for my family, the Cosa Nostra, and the beautiful woman on my left who makes my world complete. I am thankful because I have everything that I need, love, and happiness.)

Still as calculative as ever, huh? “You are Sierra De Luca, I suppose,” Dante said, voice steady but eyes betraying something else—confusion? Interest? Recognition he couldn’t quite place? “And you are Dante Russo,” I answered. I withdrew my hand immediately, needing the distance or else my disguise, my resolve might crack. His gaze followed the movement, then drifted down to the wine in my glass. “I find it fascinating that you know me,” he said, settling onto the bar stool beside mine and ordering wine for himself.

“Quit whining in my fucking ears and get me outta here already.” “I'm gonna whine all I want, okay? Let me whine because I know you don't give two fucks about her ass, right?” He searched my eyes. “I know you can't afford a weakness right now. Dante has his eyes on you. Mr. Russo’s watching you. One wrong move and everyone's gonna die.” “I fucking know that already, you imbecile!” I snapped, getting irritated for no particular reason. “Let's go!” I growled through gritted teeth.

The same man who wanted nothing more than to ruin and see me dead… “Miss De Luca,” Giovanni D’Angelo greeted, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “What a lovely surprise.” I stood still, heart pounding. What the hell was he doing here? “You…” “Do come in. I do believe that we have our meeting to start with…”

I knew who it was. Nikolai had stepped out earlier for meetings—of what nature, I didn’t care to ask—but his absence made it easier for my father to come slithering back in. Roman had called to let me know Dante was downstairs, waiting. I should have said no. I didn’t. When the door opened, I didn’t need to look to feel him enter. The presence of Dante Russo always came with the scent of expensive cologne, finely tailored disappointment, and shadows. “You look thin,” he said casually. “Is he feeding you?”

“And now they've decided to use you as leverage.” Leila’s stomach churned. “Who?” Adrian hesitated before responding coldly. “Dante Russo.” She tensed. Dante. The man who nearly killed her. A rival businessman with a reputation as ruthless as Adrian’s, but unlike Adrian, Dante didn’t hesitate to destroy lives to reach his goals. Leila’s blood ran cold. “You should have told me,” she insisted. Adrian met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Would it have changed anything?”

Then Dante drags a hand through his dark hair and exhales heavily, almost like a man finally surrendering to the inevitable. “Fine,” he says quietly. The air suddenly feels too thin. “Russo,” he says. “Dante Russo.” The name hits me immediately. Because everybody in New York with money knows the Russo name. They basically run the security in this damn country. From security contracts, private military connections, luxury hotels and every fucking political tie you can name. There are rumors whispered behind closed doors about batshit load of-money influence and things far darker beneath the surface. My stomach drops.

The sound of the spirit pouring into the glass cup, drained out his response. He shrugged, bringing my glass to me. "You know I'd never do that to you, Alpha." He slid the glass across the table. "I'm loyal to you and the pack. You saved me, remember?" I clearly did remember. About seventeen years ago, after his parents had passed, Marcus was just an orphaned omega and like we referred to people like him, he was 'cursed by the Moon Goddess'. But I had fought the entire pack to have him at my side.

Kids lining up to buy gum from Charles Hartley for two dollars a pack. I rushed to my locker. Five minutes until the first period. “Yo!” I turned. Mason Drew. One of the few genuinely evil people in my class. Buzz cut. Good face. Around my height—thankfully. He wore a pair of Miles Morales Jordans, my dream shoes. “How was Mexico, my man?” he asked. “I didn’t go this year. Budget.” He laughed. “Dude, you got infinite money.” “I’m not rich. Have you seen my car?”

He was tall around 6’2 and his brunette hair and hairstyle reminded me someone who unwontedly barged in my life. Maybe it’s him….. My curiosity got best out of me and I found myself walking to the man. I with hushed steps walked closer to him. The man was looking at the grave and was unaware of my approaching hushed footsteps. As I was 3 steps away from him he suddenly turned with speed of tornado and a cold metal touched my forehead. My eyes widened. It was him….James Russo….but my eyes didn’t widened on him seeing here but on what was in his hand that he was pointing on my forehead.