Don't You Dare Ce Ricci Novels & Stories

I was here. And I would not leave without her. "Giulianna," I said. My voice didn’t need to rise. It didn’t need to shout. It split the air anyway, every syllable slow and loaded, a warning and a vow. Her father stepped in front of her like a damn wall of stone. Dressed in a suit that cost more than some men made in a year, with a face polished from decades of cruelty. “You’re making a mistake, Ricci.” he snapped. “This is a private event.”

I knocked his hand off my jaw. The fitting room door burst open. Leo's right-hand man stood in the doorway, sweating hard, voice barely steady: “Don. We have a problem. The current head of the Ricci family just showed up in person. They've got the whole building surrounded.” Ricci. Leo's eyes sharpened at the name. Ten years of territory wars between the Marcianos and the Riccis, and no love lost on either side. The new Don of the Ricci family was brutal, unpredictable, widely considered completely unhinged.

‘Slade,’ I said in his mind and he looked up and climbed off Rick. “Asshole,” Slade said as he looked down at Rick. “You’ll pay for that, do you have any idea who I am?” he yelled at Slade. “Yeah, you’re that mutt on the corner of I don’t give a fuck,” Slade said. “Rick, people are looking,” his Beta, Johnathan, said as people stared at us. “Dani, wait up!” I said as I noticed that she had started walking down the sidewalk and followed her.

The room came alive. “Kenny Ricci has always been a piece of work, and now he’s trying to deny this?” “The Ricci Family’s credit at the Commission is done.” “The Sokolovs pull the engagement, the Riccis lose their Brighton Beach money line. East Coast won’t last six months.” Old Don Salvatore Ricci, Kenny’s father, sat at the Ricci table, his face rigid. Tommy Ricci, the heir, the older brother, stood up in front of every Commission rep in the room and said, loud,

“No. Hell, no. We wanted to test the water. They can't touch her — not with Russetti and Hayden men on every side.” “If they touch a single strand of her hair, there won't be negotiation. Understand? I warned you.” “She’s safe, Il Don. I—” I cut him off and hung up. Promises meant nothing. People like the Riccis did not forget. “Take me to the club,” I ordered Rico. The club smelled the way it always did — stale perfume, spilled drinks, the faint metallic tang of money. But tonight the air felt electric, like the instant before a storm.

Just a video file, timestamped ten minutes ago. I hit play. For a second, nothing. Just black. Then it flickered to life, revealing a hotel room—lavish, sterile, expensive. Ricci sat in a leather armchair, wine glass in hand, draped in black like he’d stepped out of a funeral and into a throne. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, every inch of him carefully curated. He looked straight into the camera, and something in me locked tight. “Ciao, Rossi,” he said. Smooth. Cold. Like steel dragged over silk. “You thought you could steal my heart and not suffer the consequences?”

“...by men wearing Ricci colors.” Every head turned toward Ricci. He looked unfazed and spread his hands calmly. “Not my people.” “Bullshit!” Greco slammed his palm against the table. “Language,” Jose said lazily, playing with his fingers. I didn’t move nor speak. I just watched them. Greco noticed and calmed down a little. Then Ricci raised his hand. “May I?” “Continue,” I said. He leaned forward slightly before speaking. “I didn’t touch his shipments. That much I can guarantee,” he said. “However, if someone did… don't you think Greco should consider why?” He asked.

I dialed Dante, my pulse kicking up at the thought of him, a week apart making me ache in ways that had nothing to do with war. He picked up on the first ring, voice rough. “Catalina, talk to me.” “Ricci’s moving on Bassano tomorrow night,” I said, cutting to it. “His Russians are with him. Get your men locked in tonight, west side, full alert. We let Ricci think he’s got the edge, but when my crew hits first, you move. Crush his western turfs while we bleed him in Bassano.” “Fuck, I hate being away from you,” he growled, frustration raw. “A week of this shit, and I’m losing my damn mind.”

“Two at the bar, one on the stairs. Costello’s people were wired tight.” Ricci picked at a loose thread on his cuff before looking up. “Names.” “Enzo. Piero. Nick.” Ricci nodded once, like he was older than he really was. “Families will get paid.” Robin hesitated. “You sure you want to keep pushing like this? The old man’s dug in, and Landon’s running around like he wants blood every second. Last night could’ve gone bad.” Ricci shrugged. “Close calls are lessons,” he said. His voice sounded grim but his eyes were laughing. “We learned they’ll drag the wife into the fire if they think it gives them an edge.” His grin tugged higher. “And we learned she doesn’t scare easy.”

The serene sight helped ground me, a temporary balm for the anger that never really left me. There was a brief pause, and I could practically see the grin spreading across his face. "Da. You could say that." Interest piqued, I leaned forward, fingers drumming on the sleek surface of the table. "And that would be?" "Oh, I managed to get our slippery friend to see reason." Roman's voice oozed with pride. "You remember Giovanni 'The Viper' Ricci, don't you?" I chuckled as an image of the ostentatious gang leader sprang to mind. Ricci, known for his love of venomous snakes and treacherous alliances, hadn't earned his nickname lightly.