Italian Devil Novels & Stories

He laughed again, but the laughter was not amusement. Only something shattered. "My father was Don Vittore Romano," he said to her. "The Devil of Palermo." Sera stiffened. She'd heard the name. Everyone had. The Devil of Palermo — a man whose brutality had been the stuff of legend even on the other side of the seas. "He used to say… 'Kindness is weakness. Mercy is suicide,'" Valerio said, his voice a low, hypnotic growl. "I learned young. Learned that love is a goddamn joke. That loyalty gets you a bullet in the head."

He looked at the young man, a very man of Denever who immediately recover from shock. “So the devil-” he gritted his teeth when he realize the glare coming from the woman who lecture him earlier. He laughed like a madman and stood highly, forgetting the reason of why he even here this moment. “Spotlight never failed to be reliable as ever,” he said, narrating a damn thing. “You, for sure has decide to show that despicable horns of yours, Coplete.”

she asked inquisitively. “Devils Night is our favorite night of the year, a night of mischief. It started in Detroit but has spread so far beyond all of that. It is a night to celebrate being young and free, a night to have a little fun. I don’t see anything wrong with that.” she was hanging on my every word. It was all true but there was another reason for the name. Devil’s night was also Synestra’s birthday. “One final question, what do you think about the protests and people saying you somehow brainwash your fans with your music?” she asked and I could tell she thought this was a hard hitting question. I decided to have a little fun with her.

Had he always been this selfish? My thoughts were immediately silenced when a new voice sliced through the clamor, calm, and utterly lethal. "One hundred million." The room fell silent. Even the auctioneer froze, gavel suspended mid-air. I forced my heavy eyelids open just long enough to see him. He stood at the very back, half-shrouded in shadow. Black suit tailored to perfection. Black mask concealing the upper half of his face. But that silhouette was unmistakable. Everyone in the mafia world knew it. The Devil. Carlos Hernandez. The man they called the Devil in Armani because he destroyed empires while looking like he had just stepped out of a Milan runway.

"Like you haven’t pulled me into hell already? You dragged me through the mud and made me look like a fool to the devil." "You don’t even need to go to hell," Dario countered, leaning down until we were eye to level. "Because the devil is sitting right in front of you, and you’re too blind to see it." "And I presume you’re the devil?" "No, Gianna." He held my gaze, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "Roman is."

I hated the sound of that but I loved that she hated the sound of that too. "Gloat all you want now, girl. You won't last a day with Diavolo." Her shit eating grin soon returned to her face, "I hope you'll have the same fire after you see what Hell is." Satisfied, she walked away. I wanted to drag her back by her hair and show herself how much fire I've got but she was the least of my worries. I didn't know a lot of Italian words but I knew what Diavolo meant. My soon-to-be husband wasn't just the devil as a criminal.

The creaking of the giant double doors sent a wave of fear through the chained-up man and gestured that it was a sign for him to stop what he was doing, but the fear quickly morphed into a burning rage. The doors swung open, revealing a man whose body is chiseled to perfection. His dark suit wrapped around his body, his green eyes devoid of emotion as he surveyed the scene. This was Lucien Belucci, the man known as the Devil’s Incarnate, the most infamous name in the mafia world dubbed devil’s incarnate for being cold, merciless, and having no regard for life. “I knew you’d betray me. Bastardo!” the chained-up man snarled in a thick Italian accent, the veins in his neck standing out in rage.

he chuckled like the devil. "But you know what? Alessio is lucky he has a daughter. If Lisa had birthed a son, I’d have killed him and trained the boy into the man I want. His daughter is going to die, and Alessio won’t even know about it. I’m the real devil — not Alessio," he smirked dangerously as he set Pietro and Stonia’s picture on fire with a lighter.

The air reeked of iron and death, heavy and nauseating. “Too noisy.” The voice that followed was chilling—calm, devoid of any emotion yet deep and smooth like a devil's lullaby. It belonged to only one man: Leonardo Morano. Known in hushed whispers as the Devil himself, his mere presence drained the warmth from the room.

The Russian outfit had no integrity and they couldn’t care less about morals, or compassion but none of them was as worse as Dmitri Ivanov, nicknamed the Mad Dog for his brutality. Dmitri took pleasure in violence, running the Mafia outfit with an almost dictatorial authority. He was horrible to say the least—the stuff nightmares were made of. Gianna smiled sadly at that, “I suppose I shouldn’t call him that, seeing as I would be married to him in less than a month.”