Frank Della Rocca Novels & Stories

I will always be there to protect her. I couldn't stop thinking about her, and what she was doing. So when my phone rang again, I expected to hear her voice. Unknown number. My chest tightened. I answered immediately. “This better be—” “Don De Luca.” The voice was smooth. Familiar. Frank Rinaldi. The world seemed to tilt sideways. I didn’t speak. “I believe we need to talk,” Frank continued. “Face to face. Right now.” “You have some nerve calling me,” I said flatly.

He had rushed here right after receiving the McCoys' call, stunned to find that fake Ichor Pills were already in the market in just a few days. He certainly had to stop Rocco when he arrived and saw that the latter was ready to hurt Frank—if Rocco really went through with it, Lyndon would be a dead man walking! "Finally, Mr. Zimmer. Please go in—let me deal with this," Rocco said politely. Even if he would refrain from being rude to Dan, he needed his satisfaction by beating up Frank! "Deal with what?!" Dan snapped, grabbing his arm. "Frank's a bona fide miracle worker. He's the one who refined the Ichor Pills—you won't find another across all of Riverton!"

he said flatly, lifting a glass of whiskey to his mouth. Ice clinked as his fingers shifted. I couldn’t help noticing the small, bleeding cuts across his knuckles... and remembering what that man’s face looked like afterward. Goddess, Lorenzo was a sexy brute. “That’s me… Victoria Bian… Greco” I answered, standing there like I was in an interview. “About last night…” “The first time, you didn’t think the Greco family was worthy. You were too ‘precious,’” he cut in coldly, one dark brow lifting.

“You didn’t question him. You already know who did this.” Dontrell’s voice sharpened. “Rocco Valeri.” My stomach turned. "New Zealand’s mafia lord?" Dontrell nodded. "The same one I agreed to help transport his coke." I scanned a dead gunman. There—an emblem. A tattoo of Rocco’s face, his eye patch and all. "No doubt," I muttered. "It’s him." Dontrell scoffed. “Well, luck spared us? But we still need to check that warehouse. Let’s grab any working cars and—”

Immediatdiately, I turn back to take a peep at Graciela's face. I smirk at her and whisper. "I win, you lose," She groans. "Caitrona, just wait and see," she whispers back angrily. _The Infirmary_ I was just wondering how good Rocco Ferrari is, but luckily for me, he's not my type. Rocky opens the door. "Come in, didn't you say you were feeling pain?" I smile slightly at him, refusing to enter. "No, thank you, Rocco, I was doing what I did on purpose just now,"

He was a mentor but now Damian was more like a wolf hunting Aldo down. Aldo ran his hands through his hair in frustration, as he tried not to groan. A knock on the door brought him out of his dilemma. “Come in,” he said, and Rocco walked right in. He stood in front of Aldo’s table, his hands folded in front of his groin. “Sir, information reached me just now that Franco didn't come for his shift this morning.” Aldo narrowed his eyes. “Did you try tracking him?” Rocco nodded. “I tried doing that, but his tracker has been disabled.”

And no Jonas. “Shit!” Rocco barrels for Dakor, punches brutal and angry. Dakor is a bleeding mess as Rocco backs off. “L’hai ucciso, pezzo di merda!” “I told you, Papa!” Ferrari wheels, close enough to rub Godfather’s hand. “You should have sent Rocco.” Nephillim drags a hand over his face. Don of the Romanov familia. “What did you do?”

ROCCO "Traitor?" Sarcasm dripped off my tongue like acid. "Coming from you? That's rich." He raised an eyebrow, that unshakable smile still glued to his lips. "You went to the Camorra, Rocco. Walked away from loyalty—eternal loyalty, remember? And now you come crawling back like Alessandro's little bitch? You've outdone yourself."

I've still got bills to pay—my brother—! Franco raised a hand to quiet her. "*He* bought it." For a moment, she didn't understand. The world tilted slightly to one side of her, the club's pounding music fading to a distant roar. "Who?" she gasped, even though she already knew. Franco wiped a palm across his perspiring face. "Valerio De Luca." The words were a punch to the chest. She took a step back. "No. No, he can't—he can't *own* me—!"

I said looking around. “De Luca.” He shook my hand and hugged my shoulder. “I never took you for a man who followed instructions.” He beamed. “Who said I do?” I patted his back, feeling the fat underneath his coat. Roger was a man who worked with food everyday of his life and his body told a story of many nights of desserts that not only passed through his hands but through his lips as well. “Meet my brother, Cici.” I gestured to Cici whose face was a mixture of suspicion and caution.