Mark Manio Mga Nobela at Kwento

Jenkins called out enthusiastically while many groans erupted from the students. I watched as Eli, Jet, and Damon took their seats. One guy stayed behind and talked with Mr. Jenkins quietly. He was good looking himself. I’m assuming that he’s the most responsible one. He strangely resembled Channing Tatum. You know the guy from Dear John? And let me tell you, I find Channing Tatum very sexy. He’s my favorite male actor. The guy walked to his seat and he saw me looking at him. So, he smiled and winked at me before taking his seat next to Damon. I looked down at my lap, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks slowly.

“Girl, I knew he was too damn fine to be safe. But why didn’t you stop when you realized the files were... you know…illegal?” I shrugged. “Couldn’t back down, Daya. You know I hate quitting.” She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d stick. “That stubbornness is gonna get you killed one day.” She leaned closer. “So you think Marco’s, like, from the… Maroon fam—” “Marano,” I corrected automatically. “Not Maroon. And yeah, obviously. Why else would he announce his last name like that? But I don’t get it—I just helped Xavier. It’s not like I’m walking around with the file in my pocket.”

Then he paused and added, “Since you asked about me, Well, I am Marco Moreno, popularly known as Marc.” What?! Julia shouted in her mind. The man before her was a well known upcoming mafia leader. She had heard about his activities in the United States, and now, he was back in Italy! “Today I appear to be in a good mood,” Marco announced as he stood up. “In order to keep me in this mood,” he turned to Martin, “you know what I need.” Martin gave him a look before directing it to Julia, who was still sitting and staring at them.

I said, studying the face and trying to imagine interacting with this man. Sloane pulled up the next photo—a younger man, maybe early forties, with olive skin and calculating eyes. "Marcus DeAngelo. Italian-American, runs most of the high-stakes gambling operations on the East Coast. You've invested in several of his ventures. He's smooth, charming, will try to feel you out through conversation. Don't give him anything. Keep your cards close."

“Who is he?” “It was Settimo Accardi’s right hand before he got caught and died,” Damiano replied. “He started as an errand boy inside the organization, but, in no time, he became Accardi’s shadow. Have you heard of him?” Manfredi closed his eyes for a few seconds. “No, but... It’s strange…” “What, papà?” “Accardi never accepted a newbie so easily. He was a paranoid bastard. Still… this name… Marco… I recall that once, during a business dinner, Accardi mentioned something about Mark... a bastard son he had from one of his many whores.”

He would cherish what they had. “So … will you give me another chance to start over with you, Bia?” Mark asked again, sincerely. Biana froze, her eyes softening with emotion as she looked at him. “You’re sure you won’t repeat the same mistakes?” Biana asked carefully. Mark’s grip on her hand tightened. “I can’t promise I’ll meet every expectation, Biana. But I can promise I’ll do everything I can to make you happy.” Biana sighed. She knew Mark’s work wasn’t like an ordinary office job. He was the trusted right-hand man of one of the country’s most powerful mafia bosses.

“You’re hilarious.” His eyes roamed over me, scrutinizing every inch of my battered frame like I was some object on display. I felt stripped of all pride, all strength. My leg trembled uncontrollably, and in a desperate attempt to ground myself, I dug my fingers into my own flesh—into the pain—reminding myself I was still here, still alive. “Kilman,” Markos called out without taking his eyes off me. One of the men stepped forward. Tall. Stoic. The kind of man who didn’t speak unless he had something deadly to say.

Mark is a tall and huge black skin guy in my gang, with a bald head, his hardened face would make anyone feel uncomfortable around him, he would never smile at anyone, sometimes I wonder if he was born that way or life mar him to be that way, he's like a hard nut to crack, he gazed at his wristwatch and nodded his head, Gwen walked to the door, she halted her step like she forgot something, she turns, running back to me, she hugged me tightly, laying her head on my chest, Ethan looked surprised at her but said nothing, I tapped her back, in an assuring manner "Thanks" I heard her say, she hurried her step and walked out of my office with Mark leading her way, I took in a deep breath, and wal

As I approached the desk, I nearly collided with someone stepping out of the elevator. "Mr Marino?" I gasped, my eyes widening in surprise. Don Vincenzo Marino stood before me, his commanding presence making the air feel heavier. Unlike Antonio's boyish good looks, there was something dangerous about Mr Marino's refined features; his gaze reminded me of the lions I'd seen at the zoo, beautiful but lethal. His eyes bore into mine, and for a moment, it felt like he could see every crack in my armor, every secret I was trying to hide.

“Talk.” “We traced one of the dead men from last night. The one you dropped during the attack.” Dante’s eyes widened. “And?” “He’s not connected to Mark,” Marco said. “Not even indirectly.” Dante leaned back slowly. “Explain.” “No financial ties. No political overlap. No shared contacts. He was clean. Too clean.” Everywhere became quiet instantly. “That doesn’t make sense,” Dante said. Marco shook his head. “There’s more. The tattoo on his wrist.”