Frank Della Rocca Novels & Stories

Men who had eaten at my table. Now they stood around Marcello’s operation. Some avoided my eyes. Others didn’t. One man stared directly at me. I knew him. Rocco. He had worked security for me for almost six years. He had been there the night I took over one of the southern territories. He had sworn loyalty to me. Now he held a rifle for Marcello. My jaw tightened. “You.” Rocco’s expression remained blank. “Don.” The title sounded wrong coming from him. “You joined him.”

“Basta, boss. Siamo in pubblico. Non puoi farlo qui. Quell’uomo è collegato a una famiglia mafiosa molto pericolosa. Se continui adesso creiamo una guerra aperta.” “Enough, Boss. We are in public. You cannot do this here. That man is connected to a very dangerous mafia family. If you continue now, we will be creating an open war.” I wanted to finish what I had started. I wanted to break the hand that had touched her until the bones would never heal straight. Yet Rocco’s grip and the phones pointed in our direction forced a temporary stop. I gave a single nod. Rocco turned on the onlookers and raised his voice. “Via di qui. Tutti. Adesso.”

I was here to command. One by one, they arrived. Francesco De Luca was first, of course. Always early, always elegant, with his gelled hair and crisp charcoal suit. He greeted me with a nod, not a smile. Then came Rosa Mancini, as sharp as ever in her tailored navy blazer, her lips lacquered in a precise blood-red that had never once smudged. She gave me a cool once-over and took her seat silently. Giancarlo Bianchi entered next, leaning on the cane that concealed a hidden blade. Age hadn’t softened him it had made him crueler. But today, his expression was unreadable.

I coughed, fighting through the haze of shock, reaching blindly for the door handle. Click. The driver's door was ripped open from the outside. I looked up through blurred vision. Standing in the frame wasn't Carmela’s men. It wasn't the police. It was four men in dark tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns. The man in front wore a heavy leather coat, a jagged scar running across his jawline. I recognized the crest pinned to his vest immediately—the silver viper of the De Luca syndicate. The rival family from the south. "Marco Ricci," the man smiled, his voice coarse like gravel. "The court says you're a free man today. Our Don disagrees."

I didn’t even know the man personally, and yet, here I was, dreading even meeting him. “But there is something that you are going to need to know if you are to be an ally, Donatello.” Alessandro said, looking out the window as the plane touched the ground. My heart raced, and I watched as my mate stood on his feet, hanging up before the door opened. The fact that the pilot didn’t even taxi, and I knew that it was because of the men who were waiting for him. A man entered, the scar on his face was one that made my stomach churn. His tattoos could be seen on his hand, and I raised an eyebrow when Alessandro extended his hand to shake.

he stated softly, but the sheer rasp in his voice was enough to freeze the entire coastal square. Rocco didn't take a single step back. Instead, he smirked with that insufferable, aristocratic ease. "If her man leaves a woman this beautiful all by herself to faint under the scorching sun, then I am going to wrap my arms around her waist," he countered. However, he emphasized the "wrap my arms around her waist" part with a heavy, deliberate dose of mockery, explicitly aiming to dig right into Matteo’s nerves.

he said with a smirk on his face. He was such a cocky bastard. I opened my mouth to swear at him but I was stopped from doing so by a distinct accented voice. "Long time no see, Sienna," Rocco said in Italian as he entered the booth, and I shook my head while smiling. Rocco owned the Santa Maria. He was a tall and well built man. His muscles were accentuated by a tight T-shirt which he wore with a pair of leather pants. His head was full with neatly tousled jet black hair. His face was sharp and defined and he had light stubble around his face. He was a handsome man indeed.

“I suggest you speak now, ragazzo. Torture is Cara’s most favorite sport. You’ll regret not talking.” He then pulled the knife out of his thigh… slowly. Dylan Ross groaned again in pain. “I’m impressed. He holds omerta very well.” Sol scoffs. “Look at him. It’s obvious he doesn’t belong to the mafia.” “And yet he knows your name, fratello. It’s such a wonder.” I spoke calmly. I stepped to his front as I looked at him trying to lift his head to look at us. “You know the guy standing in the corner of this room.” His eyes weakly traveled to Franco. “His name is Franco as you have heard me speak his name many times. He's the best tracker. The best of the best. He finds anything and everything I

Ivan and Alexander froze, knowing this was a brutal invasion of privacy, but knowing also that to hesitate was a death sentence. (TRANSCRIPT – ROMANO COMMAND VEHICLE) DOMENICO: (Expletive) Stupido. You put us at risk, Rocco. You challenge him in his own lair? ROCCO: He insulted our father’s name! He froze our accounts! Who does he think he is? A savage Russian brute.

I said, smiling at him and extending my hand out to shake his hand. His eyes turn dark for a mere second, and then his lip tugs slightly into a smirk. The big scar over his left eye made him look even more mysterious, just as Ricky had told me. "Luna Dannelly. It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the invitation. I apologize for my lack of communication and for not responding to your invitation. I've been so busy. I thought I wasn't going to be able to make it, but, I just couldn't miss today. Alarick is a good friend and I just had to come and greet the old Rascal." he says, smiling. He delicately grabs my hand, pulling it forward and placing a kiss on my knuckles.