Murderino Book Club Novels & Stories

With a shaking voice, he blurted, “You can’t kill me. I know what I've done, but I’m willing to change. You can keep me as your rat against the Russians.” I kept my calm, despite the revelation. From the look on Nico’s face, the word Russians had mistakenly slipped out of his lips. At least now I knew he was working with the Russian Mafia, popularly known as the Bratva, and smuggling women and children. This was all part of that big fucking chain that had started twenty-four years ago. If I was right, I knew who Nico and the other rats had been working for. “A traitor’s always a fucking traitor, Nico. You would’ve said the same thing to that damned bratkis if this situation were to be revers

All I could think of was the memory of the white cloth being pulled over Marie's lifeless body. I never thought Gigi would be the culprit who killed Marie. I couldn't stop myself from lunging at Gigi and choking her. "Annette! Have you lost your mind?" Zachary roared. He grabbed my arm and threw me aside, making me fall onto the ground.

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Damon shrugged, pushing his head forward to a book that was placed on the man's table, and the title that was written by the side was vivid, at least, enough for him to see. “That book,” he announced, raising an eyebrow. “Walking free by Dr. Munjed Muderis, in the year 2014.” “You've read it already?” The man kept revealing the shock on his face, after every word that left his mouth. “Yes,” Damon replied almost immediately, placing one hand in his pocket. “About three times to be precise, so yeah, that should be an easy guess.” “Then why did you use two options?” the man questioned, squinting.

We aren’t top dogs for nothing. Alex though, has been the worst. His constant need to kill has been unbearable. Only a week ago he murdered fourteen people just because he could. Utter Chaos. Granted none of us have slept with any other woman since our proposed engagement to Mr. Moretti’s daughter. I fear if we don’t get it going soon the whole city could be in danger. Soon, we’re pulling up to Club Ambrosia. The big flashy lights flashing as our bouncer stands guard outside the front entrance clipboard in hand. A list of names held securely upon it as a line of people wait to get in.

These actions cannot be explained, Navpreet,’ said the inspector gloomily, casting an eye on the mountains. The sub-inspector gave a stiff nod and carefully studied the inspector who seemed to be lost in contemplation. ‘From what I have seen, murders are of two types,’ said the inspector, the tips of his fingers coming together. ‘First are the unplanned ones, committed by people who were suffocated in some way by the acts of the would-be victims. When they see an opportunity, their fear is eclipsed by the pain they have suffered and they strike.’

She finally plucked the book from the shelf and dragged it to the window, flipping open the crimson-stained leather cover. “Morino Family Tree.” The writing was faded and difficult to read, the opening pages smudged and warped with age. She traced the dates with her fingertip, feeling sick. The Morino legacy dated back to 1840—long before anyone ever whispered the word “mafia.” The ink was dark, smeared in places like someone had pressed their hands across it while bleeding. As she concentrated, a shadow fell across her. Her stomach dropped. She knew that shadow. Before she could move, his hand came down gently on her shoulder, and his voice drifted down to her ear like poison wrapped in sil

The voice of the news anchor filled the room, crisp and unwavering: “Coming up next, more details on the release of Vincenzo Espósito, a man with extensive ties to the Italo-American mafia, convicted in 1997 for multiple crimes...” Then, without warning, the screen went black. My head snapped toward the remote, now resting in Gojou Morunaga’s hand. His expression was stone-cold, unreadable, but the weight behind it was suffocating. Just when I thought he had finally left for the evening, here he was, sitting across from me with that damn book in hand. “I never had the patience for the news,” he said, lifting a well-worn paperback to eye level. “I prefer a good book.”

The memory hit without warning: me, standing in the middle of the dining hall last night, eyes red-rimmed, saying to him, "Domenico, I didn't hurt her. Please, just believe me this once." But he hadn't believed me. He'd chosen to lock me away instead. His breathing came apart. It felt like his chest had been split open with bare hands. And then Domenico Ferrante, the Don of the most powerful family in the city, dropped to his knees. He reached out with trembling fingers, trying to touch the body. Yet the moment his fingertips grazed the blackened skin, he recoiled as though he'd been burned, like he simply could not accept it.

Did murder seriously turn his sister on? He scoffed sadly, “We’re a fucked up family.” He thinks to himself when he sees the desire in Danielle’s eyes after cutting off yet another of Suarez’ finger. Dimitri leans over towards him, “Your sister is as deadly as I am with a knife.” He says and laughs, “Ever get sick of her, send her my way.” Kieran looks at Dimitri incredulously and shakes his head with a chuckle. “Family is off limits, Baranov. Besides, from what I have heard, you don’t even need an enforcer. Do you have any bookies late with their money?” Kieran asks and looks at an amused Dimitri. “They would rather die,” he says and shakes his head with a smile. Psychopathic bastard.