Nico Russo Novels & Stories

For the first time in days, something almost like a laugh pressed against my chest, but it faded when I saw the document case on his lap. “You really had the apartment arranged?” “Yes.” “And the lawyer?” “Yes.” “And the car?” “Elena, I am a Ferretti. I was born making exits people pretend not to notice.” I turned toward the window. “Why?” The teasing left his face. “Because I’ve watched you love the wrong man for too long.” I looked back at him. Nico kept his eyes on the road, his voice even. “At school, you thought I mocked you because I enjoyed it. Sometimes I did. Mostly I was angry that you kept giving De Luca the kind of loyalty he never knew what to do with.”

⸻ “I understand enough.” He turned toward her. “I know someone wants you.” “I know every memory I recover brings me closer to something I can’t explain.” “And I know…” His voice softened. “…you’re trying to carry all of this alone.” ⸻ She felt tears threatening to fall. “Because I don’t want you paying the price.” ⸻ Before Alessio could answer… The cockpit door opened. Nico Romano entered. Always composed. Always alert. Tonight he wore a charcoal tuxedo instead of tactical gear.

“YOU HAVE TO LET ME GO, YOU TRUNK OF A MAN!” A low, sinister chuckle leaves his lips at my lame insult, his wide shoulders shaking slowly at the motion. “My name is Santino Ricca.”

Watching. The crackle of the fire filled the silence. When I finally turned, his eyes were already on me. Alexandro sat on the edge of the bed, his dark tunic unbuttoned slightly at the collar, the faintest edge of a scar peeking out along his collarbone. He looked impossibly calm, as if the moment on the cliff had cost him nothing. But I knew better now. He had waited a long time to let someone close. And he had chosen me.

Then a hand went up. “It’s y equals mx plus b.” I turned toward the voice. The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks. “That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?” “Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”

He moved into the room, "Boss, it's done." I felt something in my chest ease and gave him a pleased grin. “You always know what I want." "What are you two talking about?" Zella looked between us, confused. Nico pulled out his phone and turned on the news. The screen showed live footage of a police station. Officers were escorting Victor Russo from a van, his hands cuffed with his face twisted with rage. Russo was shouting something at the cameras when a gunshot rang out. Blood exploded from the back of his head. He dropped like a rock to the ground.

“Drive.“ Then he turns back to me. “So. What made you decide to come?” I look out the window. “Maybe to piss off my husband.” “Mmm. Honest. I like that.” --- DANTE’S POV The lounge at Russo’s club smells like cigars and bad decisions. I’m on my third drink, and even that can’t help keep me calm in their infuriating presence. Russo is laughing at something Vito said. Something about a shipment in Naples. Vito blows out a ring of smoke and slaps my shoulder. “You’re too quiet tonight, kid.”

Warrior Robbie “You fucking what!” I bellow unable to rein in my anger. I don’t mean to blurt the words out, but Nick gave me the reins of control here, so I’m just going to go with it. “They have my mate.” Alberto huffs out as his body appears to relax. Is he relieved that he told us? My reaction to his words is to call bullshit but something inside of me holds me back. I think Nick was right to want to listen to him before acting because, while I’m not sure if he’s 100% telling me the truth, I’m also not sure that he isn’t.

He thinks Nico is just another boy in the school. But Nico is a Romano. A mafia heir. A son to the ruthless Mafia Don Lorenzo Romano. And no one walks away after putting their hands on something Nico has decided is his. “Let her go,” Nico says again, lower this time, softer, but somehow worse. Like the calm before a hurricane. Alessandro’s sneer falters for half a second before he recovers. “What if I don’t?” The crowd gasps. Nico tilts his head, his smile widening. “Then you’ll regret waking up this morning.”

Grief had become her uniform now. Across the wide concrete floor, Nico was already waiting. He stood with Rocco and a handful of the men still loyal to him after Cesare’s death. Their faces were drawn, wary, watching every movement like it might detonate. And beside them, late as always and unapologetically so, Mazzo Marino strolled in with his father’s consigliere limping two steps behind him. His limp was exaggerated—the bullet Lenny had put through his knee still healing—but the swagger remained.