Marked By The Mob Novels & Stories

We barely got visitors in the house. “I’ll go get the door.” Dad said, practically jumping out of his seat before I could even think of moving a muscle. “Welcome Elders. Come in.” I heard him say from the door. Elders? I casually turned my neck to see, my blood freezing when my eyes landed on a mark I knew all too well. The steak suddenly soured in my mouth, and my stomach churned with acid. I tightened my jaw, trying to control the puke that threatened to escape.

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.

“Smart girl. But you still came running. Because deep down you know he is the only one strong enough to keep you alive when the real wolves come.” Milrac pulled me back against him, chest to my back, one hand splayed low on my stomach. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric. “Enough talk. The mark happens now. On my terms.” The rogue leader raised a hand. “Public. Teeth in flesh. We film it live. Or the old woman gets the needle.” Milrac turned me in his arms until we faced each other. The bridge lights cast shadows across his face, sharpening the scar through his eyebrow. His stormy eyes had gone full gold.

I don't know what I expected to find when I got to that party. Something more hidden, I suppose, but not in my stupidest dreams did I expect a giant hotel with a red carpet to be the hangout for the bad guys in the mob. It was not logical. They were in the crosshairs of the police. If something was clear to him, it was that they liked to live on the edge, letting themselves be seen but being untouchable by nothing or anyone. It was part of the adrenaline of work, the one that seemed to like so much to all the men of that world.

Mark felt a surge of hope as he turned to look at his mother, his eyes pleading with her to make the right choice. "Why are you bringing my mother into this?" Mark managed to choke out, his voice cracking with fear and desperation. He struggled against his bonds, feeling the blood rushing to his head as he watched his mother tremble in fear. Dmitry's men held her firmly, their cold grips leaving bruises on her arms. The Russian mob boss walked slowly around her, his eyes boring into Mark's terrified expression.

What was that? The red eyes were still haunting my memory and to make everything worse, the mark on my wrist was burning from the inside like something was trying to crawl from inside my skin. I kept hiding the mark under my fingers, the skin was burning but I kept my focus on the street lights that welcomed us as we finally reached near home. I glanced at my mark for the first time after it had started burning, the mark had changed, it was no longer almost invisible shade of faint brown.

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.”

The doctors could never have guessed that it was my wife, Lilian Barton, who had her people brutalize Wesley like this. Until today, I had no idea that Lilian led an underworld gang in Teravon. She ordered her men to beat Wesley mercilessly. While Wesley cried out in agony, she felt nothing but irritation at the noise and disgust at the sight of his blood. "Blood on a wedding day is the worst omen. This perfect occasion has been ruined by this cursed little thing," she said. She quickly had someone drag Wesley to the hills behind the venue, then turned to clutch another man's hand tightly. "Honey, don't worry. I'll take you to the chapel later to cleanse all this bad luck."

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.