Massimo Mancini Novels & Stories

I see the faint marks on his knuckles, they’re subtle but noticeable. He’s wearing a half-sleeve today, not his signature leather jacket, and burn me, he looks like he’s just stepped out of his usual shoots. Yes. Massimo Bianchi is face of Italian Magazines. I wouldn’t be surprised if he seeks career in modelling, but his dark soul is corrupted enough to run his father’s business. By business, I mean, illegal one.

He gave her one last heated look before he opened his mouth, "I'm Massimo Cassano, a friend of Ethan" • • • • • •

"He already chose, Vince. He told me to leave you. He won’t change his mind." Vincenzo cupped his face. "Then we’ll make our own kingdom. But not until I make them pay." Francesca narrowed her eyes. "We have a lead on the man watching Ramon from the shadows. Burned face. Exiled captain. Sound familiar?" Vincenzo’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Massimo is back?. The bastard…." Manuel nodded. "And he’s not alone." Outside, in a dark alley, Massimo stared up at the glowing De Luca private Beach side house on top of the hill in the middle of nowhere from the shadows, a wicked smile on his scarred face.

I left only the weapons factory, supplying governments and organizations across the world. Dante opened the door to the room, and we stepped inside. Seated in an armchair by the window was one of my father’s old rivals—Don Antonio Mancini, a man in his late sixties, puffing on a tobacco pipe. Around the dining table sat three men: to the right, Mancini’s eldest son and heir, Alessio; beside him, his cousin Lorenzo Milano; and further down, Matteo Bellandi. The three inclined their heads in respect.

Mancini stifle a laugh with a cough. I leave their table alone while they eat and notice the owner go over to say hello to them. I knew he would at some point. Mr. Mancini is good for business, but he also speaks Italian, and Alfonso never misses an opportunity to talk to someone from the old country. Hearing the string of Italian coming out of Mr. Mancini’s mouth isn’t helping me to keep my body in check. Judging by the look on Jennifer’s face, it’s also quite the aphrodisiac for her as well. Wonderful.

Michalis Mancini spoke in a tone so sweet it would have almost fooled her. “Yes, Mr. Mancini. Thank you for your generosity. I am thankful for this opportunity.” She faked an appreciative smile. “μη με κάνεις να το μετανιώσω” he spoke in Greek, making her raise her brows in surprise. How many languages did this man speak? She knew that Michalis Mancini was no ordinary man, after all, he ran the Mancini family, and his reputation scared the dead. Not only was he ruthless, but he was clever.. extremely clever. How else would he manage to run this family for so long and win so many mafia wars?

~~SERAPHINA~~ I scroll on my phone in the kitchen a few days later, waiting for my toast to pop out of the toaster, feeling deeply bored yet satisfied at the same time. In the days since Massimo was shot, he has to take a step back from the business because he was fucking shot. He's not particularly thrilled about it, but when he tries to go about his regular business, Dr. Moretti lays down the law, and it's pretty damn funny to see a big, deadly mafioso bow to a woman who can't be taller than five foot two.

She was Ben's almost twin sister. “Montana,” she said, too brightly. “You’ve lost weight.” “I’ve been grieving your brother,” I replied. She didn’t flinch. “He’s been buried now. Time moves forward, and you should too.” Behind her came her husband, Marco. He didn’t speak. He never did. Just stood with his arms folded, as if he were waiting for someone to be dragged out. Then the patriarch himself. Vittorio Rossi. Slower now, but still looming. In a navy suit and the same diamond pin he wore at our wedding. He didn’t offer condolences. Didn’t even pretend.

She's always in the news, and I had Emily search for information on her earlier today. I couldn't believe such a pretty woman would shamelessly throw herself at a man. Lucien is undoubtedly one of the most attractive men in Italy. He's rich, hefty, and extremely commanding. His attractiveness alone is everything to die for, but this man I rejected publicly once upon a time six years ago. I don't want to believe he's doing all this just to take revenge on his bruised ego. If this is it, then I'm honoured. “Go upstairs and wait,” he instructed calmly, now facing me. She nodded and obeyed, not without sticking her middle finger at me.