Marco Polo Siblings Novels & Stories

He’s the typical cute boy next door. “Her name is perfect. She knows that.” Matteo looks at Iz, his hand cupping her face as he smiles. Marco ignores his words and continues. “That is my sister Felicity. Next to her is her partner, Jacob. Then there is our father, Carlos and our mother, Aileen.” He points out each. His dad is who I saw; he is enormous and who I pictured as the Don, but I guess he has stepped down now. Marco stops for a moment. I watch humour spread on Lorenzo’s face as Marco stops and points at a woman.

But it was like they’d vanished off the face of the earth. No trace. No leads. “Maybe they left the country,” Lorenzo said, his voice full of despair. “Maybe they’re in Europe, or South America…” “No.” I stared out at the Chicago skyline. “They’re still here. I can feel it.” But a feeling wasn’t a lead. Our money was running out. The estate was sold. We moved into a small apartment. Lorenzo sold his last Rolex. I pawned the ring my father left me. The great Moretti brothers. Living worse than the people we used to rule.

She finished and held my hands. “Trust me on this one my dear, things are going to go as planned and you won’t have any reasons to regret. Your happy days are here!” “Thanks mom, these words mean a lot to me. If I may ask, how many of them would be coming over?” I asked her. “I’m not exactly sure of that but about six of them were present at the court on that day.” She replied. “What are their names and who are they?” I asked again. “Max is your father’s elder brother, Jenny his kid sister and her twin Patric, Jenny’s husband Simon and their kids, Alex and Brenda. They are twins as well.” She told me smiling.

But as we walked in, we ran right into trouble. Marco and Lola were stepping out of a prenatal exam room. "Well, well," Marco smirked. "Just got engaged and already hitting up doctors?" Dante's face darkened, but he stayed silent. Marco raised his voice. "Let me guess—you're here to patch up my crippled brother? Or maybe to check on my future sister-in-law's—" He paused, eyes sweeping over me like poison. "Marco, stai zitto!" Dante's voice dropped low, cold as hell.

she asked. Elara shrugged, light and careless on the surface. “I don’t know.” But she did. Her family wasn’t from here. Not Pennsylvania, not England. Her father was Greek. Her mother Portuguese. There was no logical reason for her to be tracing lines between this man and her brother, no reason for her mind to be searching for origins or explanations. And yet she couldn’t stop.