Mafia Seat Novels & Stories

No one else would dare. I had escaped my father but I just basically went from frying pan to fire. Hakan was Scorpion, there was no doubt about it. I was in the arms of the deadliest and most feared mafia boss in the whole country and maybe further than that.

“Father, why are we here?” I ask for what feels like the millionth time. We’re sitting at a long table on a raised dais in a massive banquet hall. At least 300 people are here—more than some of my friends’ weddings. And on the other side of my father, sharing our table, is Don Rafel Luciano—the head of the Italian mafia in this part of the city.

But I couldn’t stop now. Riccardo Moretti never needed to raise his voice to command respect. His presence alone did that. “I refuse to believe I raised such a stupid daughter,” he said evenly. “You still don’t get it? In this world, no one does what they want. Everyone does what they must.” “I know,” I replied quickly. “I know how the mafia works. Rules. Deals. Hierarchy. But—” “But nothing,” he interrupted again. “Everything has a price.”

Just older. The caption reads: "Lucia Santino, heir to the Santino fortune, attends annual charity gala." "That's my mom," I whisper, shaking. Your mother wasn't Lucia Hale. She was Lucia Santino. And that's why people are hunting you. "I don't understand. Who are the Santinos?" He writes slowly, carefully: One of the five founding families. The most powerful one. And you're the last surviving heir. "What does that mean?" It means you're worth more dead than alive to four families.

The mafia's maid "Fuck!" Jeremy causes out loud when his secretary came to tell him that his drugs has been dismantled by a mobster. "They all know that any mobster who turns against me must have a gruesome death," he said as he roared out loud. Ashley woke up early, as usual, she did her morning ablution and went straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, there she saw other maids with which she exchange greetings.

'My name?' He asked with a shocked expression. 'Yes.' He frowned and looked me in the eyes. 'Giovanni, my name is Giovanni LaRosa.' I smiled to myself. It's long and sexy, just what I hoped for. 'Okay, uhmm...' I was thinking what question I could ask. 'Do you do illegal stuff?' I asked. 'Yes. I do.' He said. Jesus, that was easy.. I nodded my head and thought of the possible thing he did. Maybe he killed more than just my sister. Or he is into drugs. Or woman export. You never know. But I'm already screwed, so fuck it.

Vincent is underboss and Niko’s right hand, Matteo is New York Consigliere, and Chase and Danilo are first captains, a position passed down in their family. And Miguel. Miguel was first captain too, I remember him saying that once, at that time, we’d been about to break into my friend Anna’s house, fearing for her life. He used to stay here at the mansion too. A wave of helplessness hits me as usual when I recall my previous guard. My shadow as Tommy called him. Miguel absolutely despised me. I smile sadly at that.

The doors opened and Santiago appeared with his men. Alessio stood up and Laila scooted closer to me. "Santiago, good to know you arrived in one piece." He grunted but averted his gaze to me. He stilled and plastered a huge grin on his facade. "Alessandro, I wasn't informed you would be joining the meeting. Good to see you again." He examined me from head to toe finding something. I swirled my glass, "Likewise Santiago. I could show up anytime I want Santiago. I am the capo of this mafia after all." I pointed at the seat, hinting for him to take a seat. He obeyed.

I clenched my palm hard, again and again, trying to confirm whether this was a dream, but pain shot through my hand. Suppressing the cold sweat rising along my spine, I slowly lifted my head. I was seated at one end of a long dining table. Across from me sat two men—the heirs of the most powerful mafia family in Chicago. On the left was Caspian Falcone, the mafia family’s underboss. Twenty-eight years old, he was dressed in a black suit, with a prominent scar cutting across his temple. His gaze was as cold as a glacier, and rumors said the number of people he had personally executed was beyond counting.