Italian Novel Mga Nobela at Kwento

I take out my notebook, already full of interview questions, and snap off the cap of my pen with my teeth. “Shall we begin?” I ask, and he nods his head in affirmation. One quick up and down. “Mr. Romano. That is Italian, is it not?” “That it is doll, I am a born and bred Italian man,” he replies, puffing his chest out just slightly as he does. I give him a warm smile, and continue. “So, what propelled the decision to move to the midwestern United States instead of staying at home in Italy?”

Mancini, smiled softly and listened. They all looked up when I walked in. “Good evening,” I said politely, forcing a small smile. “Good evening, cara,” Mrs. Mancini said warmly, patting the seat next to her. I sat down gracefully, trying not to make it obvious that I was slightly nervous. Dinner was a beautiful spread of Italian delicacies, Risotto alla Milanese, creamy and golden with saffron, paired with roasted lamb and grilled vegetables. The aroma alone could make anyone forget their problems.

The next day, the entire media in Italy carried about the news of the engagement of Lucrezia and Primo. *** Luciano Romano got in a temper where he was. The newspaper which had Lucrezia's engagement news on it was thrown onto the workbench. Luciano ran away with both hands scrambling his own hair in frustration. He thought that this time would never come true. Five years ago, Lucrezia did say that she would be engaged to Primo Zappa. However, the engagement never took place. Until last night.

A cat blinked at me from a stack of poetry. “Looking for anything specific?” the old lady asked. “Something old,” I said. “Something rare. Italian. About rebirth. Survival.” She nodded, and twenty minutes later she brought out a first edition—“La Fenice: The Phoenix.” It was a story of pain, death, and rebirth. The tale of a girl who burned in the fire and rose stronger. The cover was worn leather, gold-pressed lettering. Inside, hand-stitched. I opened the last page and tucked in a pressed lily. Katarina favorite flower.

She happily exited his mansion. While a small smirk didn't leave his lips for even a once. Now it was a time for him to claim what was his. Not every love brings roses and sweets. Some prefer thorns and poison. ______________________________________ The Italian that I am using in the book is from G****e translate so maybe there will be some errors. _____________________________________ Next will be updated soon. Do like and give feedback. Spread the purple heart.

“Actually….I didn't… well I haven't.” “You haven't what?” The title I couldn't read it, it wasn't very clear,” I said hoping I was right, it was an old book after all and there was no title on the thick back so maybe it had faded. “Really? Let me see,” he said, stretching his hand towards me. I handed him the book and he opened it to the front page. “Ooh! La Divina Commedia, it's an Italian classic…how couldn't you read this? It's very clear,” he asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

A total letdown. The library itself was just as disappointing. One section was crammed with Italian law books, dry histories of world wars, and mafia men. The other section was romance novels so ancient they might as well have been written on parchment paper, and it didn’t help that most of them were in Italian, which I couldn’t even read. What did I expect? Adrian having a collection of modern, romance, mysteries, or thrillers? This wasn’t some sappy romance novel where the heroine falls in love with a library.

Author's POV' The engine hummed low, the only sound filling the air between them. Morning rush on the streets blurred past the windows, but inside the car, silence pressed down like a heavy fog. Elena sat and turned slightly toward the glass, watching the city roll by, her hands folded too tightly in her lap. Many stuffs running on her mind. The first was the excitement of her first day at work after being married to a mafia king. Though Vincenzo still hasn't been claimed as a mafia king, soon he will be announced as mafia king of Italy through a ceremony.

She turned to the second page and continued reading. ‘So Velenoso married a woman of Italian origin and was ready to take the oath (omerta) in their language. The Omerta is an extraordinary ritual where Velenoso cut his hand and spilled his blood to show He wouldn't fear spilling blood to protect his soldiers when the time comes.’