Novel & Cerita Massimo Mancini

Massimo stared at the phone screen till it went off, then he stood and grabbed his coat, leaving the office. His drive to the club was faster than he expected. He drove himself. He entered easily, the blast of music and noise making his ears sting. He hates it madly...the noise. He's used to his office quietness, so this ain't cool, but for the sake of her, he delved deeper. He has always had an eye for this exact girl, but seeing how she always looked at Niccolo has been keeping him away, but now that Niccolo said she's unimportant, a try is allowed.

I rolled my eyes as I adjusted myself back on the seat. “What are you?” I demanded. “I’m a man.” “Karl.” He grinned. “Okay, okay.” He sighed and leaned back. “I’m just… a right-hand man.” “That is the vaguest job description in history.” “I work with the mafia, love.” Silence stretched between us. My head was just blank. He turned to face me. “Massimo is a mafia boss. I’m his right-hand man.” The words came out way too casually. Like he’d just said he works in accounting. My mouth hung open. My brain rebooted twice. Oh my goodness.

His high cheekbones surrounded his perfect nose and plump lips. He was clean shaven with a dimpled chin. His hair was short, black, and wavy. He greeted us in what I guessed was an Italian accent. He licked his lips and with an air of arrogance. He slowly opened his robe and threw it over a nearby stool. The small class of mostly middle aged women whistled, clapped, stomped their feet, and cheered at the majestic sight. Massimo was hung like a horse- a big, young stallion. He stood with his hands on his waist showcasing his magnificent manhood, giving us a much needed chance to admire his glorious form.

He needed to find out who was behind this and make them pay. Antonio and Leonardo helped with the Mancini business. Most important matters were left for Alessandro. They attended one meeting after another, informing investors that Mr. Mancini was still in the hospital and would soon resume work. Alessandro was so grateful for his loyal employees that he decided to give them a salary raise as soon as he got out of the hospital.

Yes he is the Consigliere just like Vincenzo and Gabriele he was looking dangerously handsome. The other man was a man named, Massimo. He was the caporegime of the clan. “The Russians are demanding for their territory, those motherfuckers are becoming too loud,” Massimo sneered. “Those ungrateful bastards. It’s been long since I slit some motherfuckers throats,” Gabriele spat with a sarcastic smirk on his face. “Seems someone wants their balls chopped off and fed to them,” Lucas uttered, glaring into Space making Gabriele chuckle.

She whispered under her breath, “You told me to salt the earth, Nonno, but tonight, we plant something new.” Down in the courtyard, Massimo waited. He was dressed in a dark suit, the cut precise, the elegance natural to him, but his eyes betrayed something else, a nervous anticipation he rarely allowed himself. He had stared down De Marco, torn through Donatello’s empire, yet tonight his hand brushed the inside of his pocket like a man uncertain of the outcome.

We've still been going on runs because asshole traffickers didn't stop their shit even throughout the worst outbreak of the pandemic, so we couldn't either. It all works out; I guess because Mancini has been using this time to prepare Lyon for his new role as head of the squad. Yes, it had taken this long for Colton to accept, though we all knew it was coming, the guy is a born leader. A bit hotheaded, but still, he has the bearing and potential of a true ruler.

About half an hour later, my car wheeled into the old riverside warehouse in Brooklyn, Carlo and my other men following behind. We all stepped down from our cars, and I had already sighted him from a distance. Salvatore Mancini. A tall man in a neatly tailored black suit. He stood near the edge of the warehouse, hands clasped behind his back, as though rehearsing control. Leonardo hovered close, half a step behind. A counselor’s place. As I reached closer, Salvatore smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Luca Moretti's cub.” He said. “Italy finally decided to visit.” His accent was faint, Russian buried under years of New York air.

Marcel didn’t say a word, he didn’t object on his beta, and clearly his best friend, staying in the room. “Do you want to get something to drink?” He asked me, and I shook my head as I looked down at the man who I knew was fighting back his own blood. “Thank you for calling me.” I said, looking at Vladimir who nodded. “I should be the one thanking you for trusting me.” He said, watching as Marcel fought back his own demons tonight, fought back his pain and anger. Whatever had caused this trigger, I knew that it was not easy for him to control.