Mariano X Camilo Novels & Stories

His face was sharp and defined with light stubble. He was a handsome man indeed. I stood up and embraced him in a quick hug. "È passato davvero molto tempo, stronzo (It's been a long time indeed shithead)" He chuckled and let go off me. He looked Ace up and down. "È questo quello? (Is this the one?)" I sighed as I nodded. "Yes Mariano. Ace this is Mariano Di Viao, my brother. Mariano this is Ace Hernandez, my.. husband."

Oh, my love, if you only knew…" Camila murmured, glancing at her husband. He gave her a wink. The men on the council were putting the papers in their folders, pretending they hadn't heard, but the oldest of them, a man who had worked for Eduardo before going to work for Marco, stopped at the door before leaving and patted him twice on the back. March. 'You know that saying?' Child of fish, little fish is. The man looked at Eduardo, who was holding back laughter, and at Marco, who was wisely silent, then walked away.

My cheeks heat up, and I peer to look at Santino, who has the same Stoic expression he normally has. “ Maximo, let the girl go!” Santino glares at his brother, who pauses. Maximo stops his advances and pulls away completely. I breathe out in relief and I look at Santino, who has the tiniest smile tagged on his lips. Oh! So he can smile. Maximo takes out a cigar and blows on the tip, instantly lighting it up. I can't help but stare in awe, he always amazes me with his tricks, while Santino keeps his hidden.

Stumbling into the living room, my eyes widened as I saw Lorenzo get up from the floor with a bloodied nose, while Camila stood between him and Camilo, attempting to push Camilo back. Panicked, I considered helping hold Camilo back, but I was not sure if it was a good idea with his wild expression. I had not seen him like that before. "Get the fuck out!" he exclaimed, pointing at Lorenzo, and Camila cried out that he was leaving. “Please, stop this, Camilo!” Camila cried out in a broken voice, and Lorenzo stood, raising his hands in surrender before picking up his jacket and walking to the door. Camila collapsed on the couch, looking exhausted, and I rushed over to hug her. “What the fuck’s

“I don’t think. I know.” Mariano exhales another plume of smoke before flicking his cigarette into an ashtray. “You’re mistaken, Marcello. If I wanted your woman, I wouldn’t need to send someone else to take her.” The air shifts, my blood turning to ice. “I’d do it myself.” A gunshot rings through the room before he even has the chance to smirk again. One of his men crumples to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. A warning. A statement.

"I've always known you'd be a wild leopard in bed. Too bad I never got a chance. The only time I did, I turned you down." I snorted. "That's enough, Camilla." Mariano cut her off roughly. "You all know the reason why I'm playing along here. Don't make me lose it and pretend I never saw you guys here in the first place. It's a game. We've done this before. Don't read too much into it." I was sure he was talking to me but I didn't care. I was already too pissed off to give two shits about what he was saying.

They've been friends since their college days back in New York, although they separated when they went their separate ways and met a few years later in Paris “Why don't you worry about your reputation, isn't it enough that your divorce is causing an uproar,” Ricardo suggested, he didn't even know why he decided to use Camilo for his work. But he had to say, Camillo was quite an influential man, his father was well known. His father was Mexican while his mother was French, Camillo was the only child; hence they spoiled him from birth. He was an artist, although Ricardo found his work quite inappropriate “She's beautiful, you hit the jackpot… I asked Gaston to look her up, she's everything you

The air inside the old cathedral was heavy with incense and silence. Stained glass windows bathed the pews in fractured colors, and at the altar, a single photograph sat framed in silver. Marco Falcone. Camilla hadn’t cried during the fight. She hadn’t cried when she watched Mateo fall, or when she’d handed over Angelo to the authorities. But standing here—where her fallen brother’s memorial had been hastily arranged—she finally let the tears fall. There were no crowds. Just a tight circle of people who had survived the storm he’d helped calm.