Doone 1869 Novel Crossword Novels & Stories

"Revive him, I need him alive." "Yes, Sir." Dr. Danny respond respectfully, and carefully not to offend whosoever he is. I felt a chill run down my spine as Dr. Danny began to work on the man, trying to revive him. I couldn't shake off the feeling that we were in grave danger, trapped in a sinister game with unknown players.

He demanded not even looking at me, but I could see the thick smoke in the air starting to clear "My father, Christian Guerra, is unwell. I will be taking over as the Don of the Cosa Nostra. I am here to offer you a proposal..." I answered, I dont know why I was starting to feel nervous. "You have nothing I want" He interjected, this time he looked at me. Fuck. I've seen those eyes before. He has the same look in his eyes as Vittoria. Either it'll be a match made in heaven... or hell

"Blair Falcone, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health...?" Blair turned to me, his deep blue eyes locked on mine. He opened his mouth, the words "I do" on the tip of his tongue. BANG! The massive cathedral doors burst open. One of Blair’s men staggered in, his face sheet-white. "Don! It's... it's Mrs. Falcone! She's at the suburban house—she slit her wrists! She tried to kill herself!" Gasps and whispers erupted through the pews. A hundred pairs of eyes drilled into me.

I looked up, expecting to see Alessandro. Instead, I saw a pair of heavy black boots. "That's enough, girls," a deep, unfamiliar voice said. A hand grabbed me by the back of my dress and tossed me aside like a doll. I hit the wall hard, my vision spinning. Through the blur, I saw a man I didn't recognize. He was older, with a scar running across his eye. He looked at Bianca, then at me. "The Vitellis are losers," the man said. "And the Morettis are burning. It's time for a new player to take the board."

It was ethereal, as surreal as the thick white fogs which covered the floors without rising. I was...transfixed, stunned. But not as much as when the light at the end of the hall came to life, baring to my view, the silhouetted figure of none other than the only man who could break me apart and put me together, The reason for my sleepless nights and the bane of my existence, My Don, Ferrara De Castello. The effects of the lights made me to dim my eyes, my narrowed pupils gulping in the full elegance of the man walking towards me.

I woke up in Valentino's seaside manor. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows stretched an endless blue ocean. Sunlight poured across the bed without restraint, so bright it hurt to open my eyes. I had never seen light like that in Lorenzo's dark, stone fortress of a mansion. A warm glass of milk had been placed by the nightstand with a handwritten note. The handwriting was wild and arrogant. [When you're up, we need to talk about the cargo.] I looked at the note in a daze for a long time.

The fool. I tugged it out and turned it over. That’s when it happened. A soft thud. A cream envelope slipped from its pages, landing softly on the floor. Curious, I bent to retrieve it. No stamp. Just the embossed seal of Camden & Lyne Private Banking Group—a name that whispered old money, confidentiality, and quiet ruin. I turned the envelope over. No seal. Already opened. I should’ve left it alone. But I didn’t. The letter inside was short. Almost insultingly so.

It’s loud enough that we almost miss the sound of the front door creaking open. Heavy footsteps thump against the foyer floor. Vivienne freezes, her smile faltering. “It’s probably just—” Renzo walks in before she can finish her sentence. His eyes find mine immediately which is weird. “The Don is tearing apart the city because of you.”

Rose Cross, Born 1931. Died, allegedly 1994. Sophia sat at the bakery office desk the next morning with Gina's research spread in front of her and read the name at the top of the first page like it was a sentence she needed to finish understanding before she could move on to the next one.

The evening breeze toys with the hem of my skirt. Eric Bellini—the new Don whose very name can silence the East Coast's underworld for three whole seconds—is now carefully adjusting the lapel of my coat with the same hands that once signed blood-soaked pacts and pulled countless triggers. His touch is so gentle it feels almost devout. His fingers brush against my collarbone, sending an almost unbearable jolt through my veins.