Matteo Mafia Mga Nobela at Kwento

That same hand that pulled a trigger right in front of me. I placed the photo back down. The bitterness burned through my throat like acid. The phone on the bed vibrated. A message popped up from Luca. ~ LUCA: The church priest’s file you asked for. I'm sending the details now. I unlocked the phone and scrolled through. Name: Father Kieran Hale. Background: An Unknown Orphan Occupation: Parish Priest of St. Philomena Cathedral. Age: 27. Former Occupation: A church worker. I scrolled down to see a picture attached down. He really had changed, his once tough body now looked fragile under my gaze, his faltering fake smile looked clean like he couldn't hurt a fly.

“You say that like it’s news.” “It isn’t,” I admitted quietly, meeting his gaze. “I just wasn’t sure. But… My ex was a mafia. I could tell with you too. The way you speak. The way people move around you.” For once, Matteo didn’t smirk. He studied me, his silence stretching long enough for me to feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest. Then he gave a single nod, a confirmation without shame. “Yes,” he said simply. “I am.”

Each piece of paper was a nail in Raffaele’s coffin. “You sold us to Moretti,” Matteo said flatly. “You’ve been bleeding information for months. Laundering money through rivals’ accounts. Undermining every move I’ve made.” The room erupted. Shouts of betrayal, curses, fists slamming on the table. Raffaele’s mask cracked for the first time, his smugness giving way to a flash of fury. “You think you can throw me out?” he hissed. “You wouldn’t even be sitting in that chair if it weren’t for me.”

I replied as I wiped my tears “Maybe he was right, you are a dangerous person and I am an innocent one. You know the difference between you and I? I save lives and you end lives. I can’t see how this will work out. It is best you stay away from me. LET ME BE ZACH WESTLEY” With no other word, I turned back to my door and walk into my house slamming the door at his face. Maybe if he was different, we could have made it. He is a mafia and a killer. He runs the Italian mafia for gods sake, that is nothing I can take lightly. It could never work, right?

I backed away until my legs hit the edge of the bed. "What kind of arrangement?" Rafael moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to gaze out at the grounds. The evening moon cast half his face in shadow, making him look more dangerous than usual. "Dante Moreau is many things," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "But above all, he's a businessman. And when faced with losing everything..." He turned to me, his eyes cold. "Even he knows when to make a deal." "Stop talking in riddles," I snapped. My patience had evaporated. "Tell me what's happening."

“His name is Liam DeLuca. He’s one of the school’s directors…youngest in history, actually. He’s only 28, but he’s already insanely rich. Like, donated-a-billion-dollars-to-the-school rich.” “A billion?” I echoed, my eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… ridiculous.” “I know, right?” she said, her eyes wide with awe. “But that’s not even the craziest part.” I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to know more. But curiosity got the better of me. “What do you mean?” Hannah lowered her voice even further, practically mouthing the words. “They say he’s got another identity. He’s not just a director. He’s supposedly the godfather of La Lupa Nera. You know, Europe’s biggest mafia.”

What were her motives? “You don’t understand why I’m here. My son was in a coma for almost two years after he got into an accident. To protect him from any possible attacks while he was in the hospital, I spread the news that he had died. I was the one who let Kian go. But now, my son has woken up. He doesn’t remember anyone, and he has become a completely different person. So, please, Kian, meet him one last time,” Miss Lila said. I wasn’t surprised to hear her asking me to meet her son. It was proof that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Cassian was just like his mother. They were both psychos who didn’t care about anyone else’s feelings.

"I just taught her a little lesson about wandering where she doesn't belong and taking things that aren't hers." With that, she hung up. I didn't hesitate. My thumb found my fiancé's contact, and I hit dial. One ring. Two. Three. He picked up on the fourth. Music blasted through the speaker—something classical and expensive, the kind of music that cost more per hour than most people made in a month. Crystal glasses clinked in the background. The annual gathering of the five mafia families was already in full swing. "Anthony," I said, keeping my voice steady, "your mother is in the east wing of the estate. Your secretary, Lilian, is assaulting her. You need to get there now, or—"

A few yards away, sitting on a rusted metal crate, Victor Romano stared blankly into a half-empty glass of cheap amber whiskey. The former human Mafia King looked like a ghost of his former self. His tailored Italian suits were ruined, his silver-streaked hair wildly disheveled, and his gray eyes were bloodshot and completely hollowed out by grief. On the crate beside him lay a crumpled, blood-stained photograph of his son, Luca.

Papa Lucas answered quietly—but the name alone was enough to send the temperature in the room plummeting. My hand froze just as it reached for the folder's tie. My mind went suddenly blank, struggling to process the legendary name I'd just heard. Jon Mateo? Hadn't the man been declared dead? As I recalled, Jon Mateo had been a cold-blooded, high-ranking mafia boss whose network had been nearly impossible to eradicate from the underworld. The man had been so dangerous that Papa Lucas himself had once been forced to take personal command of the territorial war to hunt him down and end his life.