Marked By The Mob Novels & Stories

Dante said, trying to control his anger. Marco’s expression didn’t change. “I said—” Dante hit him. The punch was sudden and brutal. Marco stumbled back into the wall, blood instantly blooming from his split lip. The guards froze but they stayed still. No one dared intervene. Dante grabbed Marco by the collar and slammed him against the marble hard enough to crack it. “How did you know?” Dante demanded. Marco blinked once, steady despite the blood on his mouth. “I told you they were moving tonight.” “You said they made their move even before a single shot was fired,” Dante growled. “How.”

I asked. "Because your mother showed me," Mara said, and she rolled up her sleeve. There, on her upper arm, was a mark. Not a scar or a tattoo, but something that looked like it had been burned into her skin. The shape of it was intricate and ancient, and it glowed faintly in the dim light of the tent. "She marked me with her blood," Mara explained. "It was her way of creating a record, a witness to the truth. The mark glows when a lie is being told in my presence. When false power is wielded. It's been burning almost constantly since Marcus took control."

On my birthday, Robert reserved a private room at a Michelin three-star restaurant. As fate would have it, right outside the restaurant, I ran into Mark—now reduced to a street artist sketching portraits for spare change. Without his tailored suits, he looked no better than a homeless man. And soon after, another familiar figure appeared. Sofia, her innocent facade long gone, clung to the arm of a bloated mafia boss, her face caked in heavy makeup. Mark's gaze locked onto her flat stomach, his eyes burning with fury as he lunged forward.

and none of them were pretty. My eye caught something right in the middle of his back. I had to open the second to see what it was clearly. What the hell?! I couldn't believe this. He had branded himself! Right in the middle of his back was the mafia Insignia. The letter M in Gothic style was burned into his flesh, marring the upper part of his rather beautiful back. Why was he showing this to me freely? It would be easy to put two and two together and suspect he was in the mafia.

she calmed down and gave a smile. Mark is respected a lot by the people around here. It was said that he hailed from a powerful mafia family that ruled this area for almost a century. Mark single-handedly ended his family's reign in this area himself to help the people. But some guys he let off started new gangs and two of the gangs are still terrorizing the people. He is a true hero! He is a free spirit and does what he pleases. It is said that he didn't want to tattoo his family's crest on him as any heir should. But his father insisted he get his tattoo and that's why his war on his own family started.

The smile on its face was mine. The malice wasn’t. My eyes—new, aching, overwhelmed by too much light and too much truth—snapped to my mother’s throat. There, half-hidden beneath the iron collar and the shadows thrown by the seal, was a mark I had not noticed before. Not a bruise. Not a wound. A brand. Crescent-shaped, ringed with old silver scarring and lines that looked less like injury and more like writing forced into flesh.

“Not rogues—something else.” Caleb’s voice is sharp. “What kind of something else?” Milo swallows hard. “Marked.” My stomach drops. “Marked by who?” I ask. The ground shudders before he can answer. Not my power this time—something heavy, something real. A hulking shape bursts through the underbrush—eyes glowing red, wrong. It looks like a wolf, but twisted. Its fur’s dark and matted, black veins pulsing under the skin. Symbols scored deep into its flank glow with sick light.

Misty Two days have passed since I went to see my mate. He has been marked, he carries the dishonorable mark. I've never actually seen someone with that mark. It's a rare mark to see because Most are killed instead of giving that mark. I may have never seen that mark, but everyone knows to stay away from anyone who has it. I went there to get questions but left with nothing but more questions. Only horrible people get that mark. What did he do to deserve that mark?

Why wasn’t anything going my way? “Good morning everyone. Shall we get back to the business of the day after the recent disturbance,” his gaze deliberately swept over me as if I were just another face in the crowd. Heat crept up my neck. I couldn’t concentrate throughout the rest of the class till he picked up his laptop and walked out the door. Liam immediately started to approach us. I hurriedly grabbed my books, placed them in my bag, and got up on my feet. “Can we talk?” “The only talking we will be doing is my fist against your dumb ass face. Still want to talk?” Macy threatened.

“And still you should have honored that mark.” Nausea and disgust climb my throat; my mouth goes dry. I spit on his face. He does not relent. He tosses me aside by the chin. I land on my injured ribs and gasp. He hauls me up again . “Where is that forsaken wolf that dares to mark and defile me?” he roars. He tosses me again. “Let him come and protect you. Isn’t that what being marked entails? Or did you spread your thighs for him on a platter of some trivial feeling?”