Organized Crime Books Novels & Stories

“I don't care about your family squabbles. I care about my money. I care about my promises. And you, Gregory, have been very bad at keeping them. You promised me so much, and what have you given me? Nothing. I've been covering your tracks. I've been putting my men on the line for you. For what? For nothing. I'm not a charity, Gregory. I'm a business." "I have a plan," Gregory said, his voice desperate. "I can get it all back. The Omerta... it's mine. It's supposed to be mine. It's not supposed to be that... that brat's. That Christian. He's a peasant. He's nothing. He's not to be alive."

“Define deeper.” “Off-record transactions. Shell companies. Some of the names involved don’t show up in any official database.” “That’s not new.” “Yes, sir. But this time, the pattern matches something else.” “Say it.” He swallowed. “Organized crime.” The room went quiet. Not because I was shocked. Because I was thinking. I’ve dealt with dirty businesses before. It’s part of the game. You don’t build an empire by staying clean. You just make sure your dirt is buried deeper than everyone else’s.

Every number felt like a betrayal—a sign that the man I admired had a side I never knew. Carla walked into the room, a bottle of water in her hand. “You still alive, accountant?” she asked, leaning against a table full of monitors. Her leather jacket creaked, and the red of her hair gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Barely,” I muttered, not taking my eyes off the screen. “This is a mess. Whoever kept these books didn’t want anyone to understand a damn thing.” She let out a dry laugh. “That sounds like the Vallardis. Chaos is their trademark.” She stepped closer, glancing over my shoulder. “So, did you find anything useful, or are you just torturing yourself?”

He moves so fast I cannot even remember the faces of people I speak to. “Please,” I ask him “Slow down.” My feet ache and my muscles are sore. I have long since dropped the flowers on some random table, hoping silently they would burn and take the building and everyone in it. My fingers grasp onto a glass and I gulp down water quickly, my throat parched from flimsy small talk. The wedding will be in the papers. I can see the headline now- Two Crime Families Put Aside Differences; I knew the papers would sell quickly. Crime sold. I would know. My name had been in the papers since the day I was born thanks to my father. New York would tremble underneath me if I wanted it to. I dripped in cashm

The room was adorned with antique furniture and shelves lined with books, providing a façade of normalcy that concealed the true nature of my work—the world of organized crime. Taking a seat behind my grand mahogany desk, I powered up the computer and immersed myself in the affairs of my empire. It was here, in this secluded space, that I could exert control and authority. The outside world faded away as I delved into the intricate web of alliances, deals, and power struggles that defined my existence.

His hand slid down to rest over my stomach, protective and possessive. “I’m never letting any of you go,” he whispered against my lips. “We’re getting out of this city. Starting over. A real family.” The elevator doors opened to the underground garage. And waiting for us were six armed men in suits I didn’t recognize. Their leader stepped forward, smiling coldly. “Mr. Bellini. Miss Russo. We represent the European Commission’s organized crime task force. You’re all under arrest for multiple counts of murder, racketeering, and child endangerment.”

Brown said calmly, and Dorian stopped, turning and facing the window while he thought. “Is… is Lyra a gangster?” he asked. “What did she become?” he thought aloud, turning around to face Brown.

The news broke at exactly 8:00 AM. I sat in my car outside the café where I was supposed to meet Luca, my phone propped against the dashboard as Isabella’s interview played. She looked calm, composed, like she wasn’t about to throw a lit match into a pile of gasoline. “The documents we’ve obtained paint a damning picture of organized crime operations spanning years,” she said smoothly. “We’re talking about deep-rooted corruption, money laundering, and direct ties to political figures who turned a blind eye to criminal activities.”

How ironic. Neera smiled thinly. "You’re right. I don’t defend criminals. I win." The room went still. Kieran chuckled, but his eyes remained cool. Calculating. "Enough. We have business." She followed every case they discussed like a hawk watching prey. Her presence clearly made them uneasy, but that was part of the point. Power unsettled people when it wore heels and a suit instead of a gun. "There’s a laundering issue with the Castello operation," Kieran finally said. "Someone got sloppy. A warehouse raid, too much press. We’re exposed."

However, from what I knew about several Bratva organizations, they weren’t well known for their patience or their humanity. “The world of organized crime was different back then,” Pops started. “It was brutal, more like the Old West than what you see now with computers and hackers as employees. I was raised on violence and bloodshed, enough that the streets and sidewalks were often painted with the color red from whatever weekend slaughter had occurred. You hear more stories about the New York syndicates, yet their murders were kids playing in a sandbox next to what we faced.” He laughed as if the memories were bittersweet.