Italian Mob Books Novels & Stories

Damien asked Lorenzo. “There’s four major families of Italian incubus. Bianchi, Rossi, Leone, and Santorino. Each family specializes in different pursuits, kinda like the mob. Most of us have to work for the family but there are a fortunate few who are estranged, like Max. Each family has a representative that you reach out to if you need anything. There’s Luka Bianchi, Alessandro Rossi, Francesco Leone and Giovanni Santorino.” Lorenzo explained. “So you guys are real life mobsters?” Brent seemed to ask a little too excitedly.

"You had a facade, Zara. A carefully constructed lie paid for with a currency you didn't even know existed." Luciano walked toward the heavy oak desk. He didn't sit. He moved behind it with a predatory grace, his fingers tracing the edge of a hidden seam in the dark wood. With a soft, mechanical hiss, a hidden compartment slid open. He didn't pull out a gun this time. He pulled out a book. It was a ledger, bound in leather so old and dark it looked like cured skin. It had no title on the spine, only a crest embossed in tarnished gold: a lion entwined with a serpent. The Moretti seal.

I pressed my palm flat against the wood and pushed it open slowly. The room was immaculate. Luggage packed and waiting by the window. Coat laid across the chair. Everything composed and ready and perfectly arranged for a nine o’clock departure. Giulia was gone. And standing at the window with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in low rapid Albanian he clearly believed no one on this floor could hear — Was Romano. Matteo’s head of security. One of three. The first name on a list that was supposed to mean safety.

I was NOT a very emotional person and to be quite honest I didn’t know how to handle other people’s emotions. I sat on the couch in my living room and turned on the tv. I laid back on the couch as I switched channels on the tv. The sound of my phone ringing drew my attention away from the tv and to my cell phone. “Hello?” I spoke out as I answered the call. “Tesoro, you left so soon.” My father slightly cried out on the phone. “Arcano, it amazes me how you are considered a famous Mafia Don when you call me whining,” I comment as I roll my eyes and focus on the tv once again.

“They're all dead.” “Are you a cop?” My breath rasped in my throat. “Who are you?” “Marco Vitale.” He said coolly. His eyes remained on me like he wanted to catch my genuine reaction. “Like…you mean…the Black Requiem? The infamous Italian mob boss—Marco Vitale?” He grunted a deep approving sound from his throat. “You're well informed.”

"What's your name again?" "Peony, sir. Peony Sinclair," she responded. I smiled warmly. "Thank you for your help, Peony. I won't forget this, and I promise to repay you someday. I'm Mattia Luigi D'Amato," I introduced myself, extending my hand for a shake. Returning the smile, she reached out and clasped my hand. "Take care, sir." "Thank you, and I apologize for my rudeness earlier. I'll be on my way now," I remarked, letting go of her soft hand.

I needed Gavril, just like Ilsa needed Roman. I found a study that smelled like Roman’s cologne, and my heart twisted as it looked eerily familiar to Gavril’s. The moonlight streaming through the French doors gave me enough light to start rummaging through the drawers, attempting to find anything that would give me a way to contact my husband. After a few minutes, I came across a slim black book, surprised when I opened it up to find numerous well-known Mafia and crime bosses around LA. I had just found the ultimate little black book!

"As Marco’s wife, it’s important for you to get familiar with all of it." I was a little stunned at how many files there were. "If you’d rather read them on a device, you can use the laptop or iPad," Lucille added. "Let me know if you have any questions." I smiled at her, then glanced over at the documents, scanning the titles. Moretti Mafia Organization. Mafia? My brain paused for a second. The mafia? The same mafia everyone talks about in the news? I looked at Lucille, who was waiting for me to ask something.

Carlos said as I recognized Mr Moretti. No it wasn't just Mr Moretti. It was Antonio Moretti, one of the most feared mob bosses in this city. He carried himself like he had all the time in the world or at least he should there was a dagger in his hand, a dangerous glint of the edge of it from the artificial light hanging above, he was surrounded by other men and women and at the center of all that attention to was a man strapped to a chair bound both hands and feet and with a dirty rug shoved into his mouth.

His presence was imposing, his gaze was intense, and his expression was that of a lion about to catch its prey. I had a bad feeling. “Chiara, may I introduce you to the signori of Italy (gentlemen of Italy),” my father said in a serious manner. “Marcelo Greco, capo of the Casamonica and our host; Paolo Esposito, capo of the Sacra Corona Unita; Stefano Lombardi, capo of the Camorra; and Alessandro D'Amato, capo of the Cosa Nostra.” Alessandro nodded, and the name hit me like a punch.