Horse Mafia Blessings Novels & Stories

Unfortunately, Xavier chose that exact moment to glance over at us from across the rooftop. His expression remained calm and controlled. But his eyes? Those cold blue eyes practically screamed murder. A shiver crawled down my spine and Marco seemed to notice it too because he chuckled softly into his wine glass. “Careful, Bella. I think your mafia lord is deciding whether to kill me or not.” “That sounds dramatic,” I replied, taking a sip from my wine glass. “Trust me, Italian men are dramatic,” Marco murmured and I snorted before I could stop myself. That seemed to be the last straw for Xavier because the next second he came towards us and the next thing I knew he was dragging me out of the

The uncomfortable chair and cheap table didn’t bother him as much as the thoughts running through his head. Armani del Rossi was no ordinary man. He ruled his world from the shadows, the name “Del Rossi” whispered with fear and reverence across continents. He was a mafia lord—a ruthless, calculating figure who commanded loyalty through power and fear. Possession was his creed. Control was his doctrine. And anything he wanted, he took.

“Survived you.” The sizzle of weed. Then a sharp, venomous hiss. “Nice try. But I’m not killing you now.” “Thank you for the information.” My thumb hovers over the red button. “I know that already. If you have any complaints, sir. Please, kindly contact 475, and the matter shall be taken to heart.” “He’s wounded," Godfather says, aggressive. "Not physically. Mad-Bishop’s always been a tank, but something broke in him. He’s reckless now. Sloppy.”

he smiled menacingly. "I am the leader of a mafia cartel known as the 7 Daggers, here in Miami. We happen to be the ruling force of the city's underworld and our authority is undisputed. As an Arabian Prince, I'm quite sure you understand what this means" Chelsea started. Hakeem caressed his jaw, gently pulling on his beards. "Am I to feel threatened?" he asked, eyeing Chelsea skeptically.

With the New Year approaching, they prepared a feast. Cowdell placed several baskets of coins on the oak table. Each silver coin bore the Moon Goddess's emblem and carried his cedar-scented pheromones—a unique blessing ritual of the Blackthorn Pack. Only werewolf warriors' blood could warm the coins. Servants lined up, their boots brushing the floor and kicking up fine silver hairs. The lead omega's nape bristled with gray fur. With a claw on the table edge, they delivered the sage-scented blessing in a hushed voice: "May the Moon Goddess bless the pack, and may the New Year bring invincibility."

Santino mocks them. Then, he trails towards Amber and says, “Well, I guess you got what you wanted, the big bad mafia man on his knees for you.” She makes eye contact with Alessandro, and she shoots a glance at the gun strapped to her thigh, which is hidden from the view of the rest of the people in the hall. Alessandro smirks at her. “Any last words?” Santino asks as he walks up to Alessandro. He whispers, “Non ti bacerò mai i piedi.”

Five guards step out of it, and fall into step behind me instantly. With my phone in a pocket, and a pistol in my hand; eyes filled with deathly fury as we approach. The moment I step in, the sight before me makes my heart stop. Not because its new, I've seen thousands of dead bodies, it was worse after an all out war between two ruthless mafia Lords. What made my heart stop is the implication. "This is a lot." I mutter, noting the extent of damage that had been done. The thought of innocents being murdered, and killed for something they didn't do or had no idea of; makes my heart ache.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Bastian, you are in no position to negotiate." "Well, Marct has given you a year to do everything. "If nothing happens until then, well... I think it's safe to say you know what will happen," Ambrose said, standing up to stretch himself. "But Boss, mark my words. There is a reason why everyone praises Marct. He's not someone you want to start a war with. He's not someone you want to go against. Especially with the allies at his beck and call. And not that it'd make a difference, but I found out his uncle is the one leading the Draugr Mafia." Bastian's eyes bulge out. "Marct's a Mafia?" Bastian asked, still shell-shocked.

I lost my grin and looked at them with my devilish look. The man frowned. "Fuck! What do you want to happen?!" he ask angrily. I glanced again at his tattoo on the neck and bravely met his gaze. I pointed to the tattoo. "Delcour Mafia crest. You were responsible for Apollo schivan's death," Everyone was shocked again. Their seeming leader also recovered immediately.

“There’s only one way to prove loyalty now. No words. No more lies. Blood will tell the truth.” The wolf had decided. A dagger gleamed as Damian drew it from his belt, the steel catching the firelight. He slammed it into the wooden table, the impact sending cracks spidering through the splintered surface. “Tonight,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “we bind ourselves in blood. No oath of loyalty stands without sacrifice.” The men shifted uneasily. They all knew the ritual. A blood pact was an ancient mafia tradition—cut flesh, spilled blood, a vow sealed in pain. Breaking it meant death.