El Padre Sin Cabeza Novels & Stories

Father had dismissed him without a thought and told him to see him outside his home when next made an appointment. Maestro lost it and tried confronting Thaddeus "El Diabolos" Delmundo into giving him a better offer. I watched in awe as Father grabbed a fork, stabbed his eye with excellent precision, and twisted. Maestro jerked his head backward in white-hot pain and yelled. That action had done damage because Father held on to the fork the eye of Maurice came away from its socket. Security threw him out and my Father popped the eye into his mouth and washed it down with wine. That was my first time witnessing the madness that was my father.

Father whispers his wife’s name, his tone pleading, his head shaking in disapproval. What are they hiding? What is my father so afraid of? “What?” Mother asks. “What if this is true, what if. . .what are you going to tell him?” Father inquires, his tone shaking. And that’s how I know: it’s my father who crossed that line. It’s Matteo Messina Denaro who has done something terribly wrong. My mother’s mouth pulls apart, but she’s unable to get her words in when I butt in. “Tell him about what?” I breathe. “Uncle Pablo’s death?”

Julian commanded, his voice shifting into that strict, unyielding tone that instantly made my knees weak. I turned my head slowly, my eyes fixing on the screen. Inside the brightly lit hospital room, my father was asleep, his frail chest rising and falling beneath a clean white blanket. A specialized medical team was adjusting an IV drip beside his bed, injecting the clear, expensive neuro-regulators that kept his mind from fracturing into nothingness.

Jones asked, looking around the hall. Santiago frowned, his joyful expression turned pale at the mention of his father’s name. He raised his eyes to answer their question about the whereabouts of his father, just then he could see his father walk right through the door with his usual manly demeanor, which he got from him. “Speak about the devil,” Santiago mumbled and raised his glass of wine to his mouth to drown it. “Mr. Serrano,” Mr. Jones raised his hand to Domingo who saw him immediately and walked directly to the table.

Third-Person POV Teyana froze instantly. She staggered backward several steps before quickly regaining her composure. "What nonsense are you talking about? Didn't he get into Mallard U? It must be Wesley! Wesley went insane and hid him away. That father-and-son duo is just trying to get my attention." Jacintha had never seen Teyana like this before. "I've seen Miles' death certificate," she replied, her voice trembling with fear. "A-As well as his cremation certificate…"

She hugged the head tightly, pressed her face against it, and gently stroked it, trembling as she cried, "Phil, Phil, you're fine, you're fine..." That heartbreaking voice pierced the hearts of all the Pascals. The woman's tears flowed like a fountain, her hands covered in her son's blood. She gently placed the head on the ground before she grabbed her own head and hair, curling up and hysterically shouting, "Damn it, damn you, the Divine Creed..." Her eyes were filled with terror as she descended into a state of madness. This was her only son, who had just returned from studying abroad in Ereve. She never expected him to encounter such a brutal slaughter. Phil Pascal's head remained wide-ey

Slowly he lifted his cup took another sip of rum and gently put the cup back down. “Va bene, do as you wish son. But make sure you’re not going to be present in the mission. You’re now the capofamiglia of our clan. Do not get yourself killed” he said sounding even colder than earlier “Un corpo senza testa non può sopravvivere o funzionare correttamente” (A body without a head cannot survive or function properly). “Sì padre,” Marco said as he stood. He drank the whole content of his cup and stood still for a moment with his head bent and he waited for the drink to go down a little before saying. “I’ll be taking my leave now”

Chapter 1 Andres P. O. V "Confess your treacherous act in the sight of the goddess and man!” The slayer barked at a man whose head was resting on the decapitation stool, ready to be beheaded. My insides churned the more my gaze lingered on him, and the pain transitioned into violence, threatening to rip me apart. He has been a critical part of my life, and now he will be beheaded right in front of me. He was Roberto Alonso, my father's best friend, beta and trainer.

The light in his eyes went out inch by inch. He slammed his fist into the wall. Pressed his forehead against it. Didn't move for a long time. I think a tear fell. I think it hit the floor and bloomed and disappeared. When he finally lifted his head, his voice was empty. "Alright. I'll remember this. You'll pay it back, with interest." Then he stumbled away. He didn't ask about Damian's last name. I didn't tell him. Damian's last name was Moretti. Lorenzo Moretti's Moretti.

I forced myself to stand tall. “When will he wake up?” I asked the doctor. He looked at the chart, then at us. “He suffered a severe head trauma. The force threw him out of the vehicle. He’s in a coma. It’ll take time. A lot of time.” Mama let out a noise that didn’t sound human. Pietro moved to her quickly and murmured something in Italian that I couldn’t follow. I couldn’t move. My feet were glued to the floor. My hand stayed in his. My eyes stayed on his face.