Italy Romano Novels & Stories

Would Padrino be proud of the man I’ve become, or would he look down from wherever he is, disappointed I turned my back on blood? “Blood,” I muttered, my voice low, bitter. “They say it’s thicker than water, but some blood isn’t thick at all.” The Italians gave me everything. My name, my life, my men. Padrino raised me, made me who I am. I am Valentino Romano, Don of the Romano Empire, not some lost prince of the Ruger family. How could I leave everything I’ve built to go to Russia, to a family that was never there for me?

Roman wanted to ask for his daughter back but he knows that took great to ask for now. "I will make sure no harm comes to her, how else would I enjoy such a kind gesture from you." Dante smiled and Roman felt like smashing his face. Roman Ricci has always been the rival of the Russo family but no one has gotten to him as much as Dante. In their line of business, Dante is the youngest but also the smartest and cruelest. Dante has successfully taken control of more than half of the city and it was because of fear of Dante having everything that made Roman Ricci take over the government project.

It was Roman! What is he doing here?!

he ordered. She almost laughed. *As if she had a choice.* The doors burst open. A man stepped inside, casually adjusting his cufflinks. He was tall, lean, with an air of arrogance that sent alarms through Amara’s body. She knew that face. DANTE ROMANO. The heir to the Romano empire. The man who had spent years waiting for an opportunity to take down Leonardo. And now, he had walked right into Leonardo’s den. “You’ve gotten sloppy, DeLuca,” Dante mused, stepping over one of the fallen bodies. “I expected better.”

A wave of disgust went through my body, and I promised myself I would find a way to visit them to see if they were alright. Eventually, we arrived at Tomasso’s office. It didn’t look as fancy as the rest of the mansion just simple and practical with wooden furniture and lots of books. Tomasso sat down behind his desk, and I sat down facing him. He gave me a paper with the family tree of the Romano pack on it. He started telling, “The Romano pack originally came from Italy but settled here many years ago. Nowadays the territory is as big as half of the USA. The other half is controlled by the Latin American packs. The Romano pack has provided jobs and business to all the Italian wolf packs in

Matteo said, his mouth curving faintly, “are the ones holding the matches.” The ballroom of the Romano estate shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers, the same chandeliers that had once witnessed centuries of blood deals. Tonight, the old world had returned to its altar. Men and women from every corner of power cartel heads from Mexico, financiers from Zurich, smugglers from the Balkans, dons from Palermo and Moscow all of them drawn to the call of the Romano name. They came because they feared him. They stayed because they wanted to see if he’d fall.

I swerve on to the exit ramp and see Mario shaking his head with a small smirk. "You drive home then," I chuckle as he adjusts the hat over his face. Translation: fratello: brother Stronzo: asshole Figlio di puttana: son of a bitch Papà: dad arriviamo: we come Musica: music Bambino: child sta' zitto: shut up Promettere: to promise

I should have remembered that I was dealing with two sneaky bastards. “Romano,” I tried to negotiate while he cut me off rudely. “Tell your pussies to fucking stand down!” “Romano, relax and—" “Are you deaf? Tell your scarecrows to stand down this instant or I’m going to blow your head off!” Deep down, I knew Romano would make do with his threat. He has always been one heartless bastard since I knew him with Luciano. Romano does not think twice before killing unlike Luciano, who might want to give you a few minutes to say your last prayer. Romano is always ready to sacrifice everything for Luciano and I guess in this situation, it wouldn’t be any different. I mean, the idiot breathes for Luc

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I’m talking about Diablo Romano, king of the Italian mafia. Who knows what his real name even is? He’s probably changed it so many times he’s forgotten. That’s the kind of man he is. He switches names, faces, wives, and lives. You think the Godfather was bad? This guy makes him look like a saint.” “You’re lying,” I say, but my voice sounds smaller than I want it to.

Nero explained, “They were soldiers and monks before Italy even existed as a country. They were crusaders who became healers. They have no land now, yet they are sovereign. This place is not Italy.” He tapped the metal as he spoke. That spark in his eyes was back, and it made me hang on to his every word. Listening to him felt like listening to that one podcast you couldn’t get enough of. “Behind us is Rome, and Rome is Italy. Empires are stacked on top of each other, history embedded in the very stone of its foundation. Italy is passion and chaos and beauty that refuses to behave.” “And what you’re seeing,” he said, “that dome perfectly framed, that’s the Vatican. A city-state born of faith