Johnny Dimarco Degrassi Novels & Stories

"Another Italian coming to beg?" The men around him laugh. I step up to the rope, keeping my hands visible. "Dario De Rosa. Dominik Grimaldi sent me." Rilind’s eyes narrow. He stands up, swaying slightly. He’s high. I can see the pinprick pupils and the jaw tension. Not good. "Grimaldi," Rilind spits the name. "The King of New York. Too good to come himself, eh? Sends a guard dog."

“Your family? I didn’t even know them. Who the fuck is your family? Didn’t you say your family moved to Spain?” Austin’s gaze shifted past me, landing on my father, who stood at the edge of the room, his expression was as shocked as mine was few seconds ago. “Maybe he should explain,” Austin said, his voice dripping with venom. “Tell him, old man. Tell your son what you did.” My father’s brow furrowed as he stepped forward. “Your family,” he said slowly, as though piecing together a puzzle. “Who was your father?” Austin’s jaw tightened. “David Castellano. I am Fantasma Castellano!” He thundered.

This is a man, with a slight smile on his face, assessing me silently, listening to my ridiculous baffling. He is not just a man though. He's an Alpha. The Alpha.

“YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO, YOU TRUNK OF A MAN!” A low, sinister chuckle leaves his lips at my lame insult, his wide shoulders shaking slowly at the motion. “My name is Santino Ricca.”

They maintained their positions with military precision, a small reminder that this wasn’t just a celebration, it was a display of power. Standing on the raised platform at the head of the room was Antonio Marino. His sharp Armani suit and perfectly styled hair framed a face that could intimidate and charm in equal measure. At 26, he was already a name whispered in respect and fear throughout the underworld. By his side stood Daisy Fontana, her soft blonde hair flowing freely over her shoulders, her blue gown clinging to her delicate body. She radiated beauty and elegance.

Main branch: Marcel Delacourt, Viale Maria Cristina di savoia 16 Pontasserchio, Pisa, Italy. So he is an Italian guy.

Then a hand went up. “It’s y equals mx plus b.” I turned toward the voice. The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks. “That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?” “Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”

The last thing that I needed was to give into my anger while drunk. “How are things going here?” I asked, noticing that despite it being evening, the place was empty. That wasn’t like the place, especially on weekends. “Not so well lately, I don’t know if you heard, but Lorenzo De Mori decided to open a club across from us. The girls are Italians, and most are seductresses by nature. I believe that some are even slaves, but there is no hundred percent guarantee to that.” I shook my head, already knowing that he would be doing something like this. There was no opening a club without having him as a challenge. To say the least, he always knew how and when to tick my buttons.

The sounds were loud wet squelches as he finger-fucked her, greedy sucking on her clit, his groans vibrating against her. Elena’s legs shook. She fisted his hair tighter, trying to push him away even as she ground her pussy against his face. “You’re such an asshole,” she moaned, voice breaking. “I hate how good this feels. I hate you!” Damon chuckled against her cunt, the vibration making her cry out. “Hate me all you want, Elena. But this greedy little hole is creaming all over my tongue. Look at you, my proper assistant grinding on her boss’s face like a desperate whore.”