Tayo Ricci Father Novels & Stories

Boxes labeled RAVENWOOD, RICCI, DJOKOVIC, and KORSHUNOV are stacked high. And right in the middle- a folder stamped L. RICCI in thick black ink. Everything I’ve learned about him so far is inside. Lucien Ricci- firstborn son of two, heir to the Ricci empire. His younger sister, Aurora Ricci-beautiful, kind, smart, the kind of girl polished enough to be mistaken for perfect. Except she doesn’t belong to the inner circle of heirs and heiresses. No Elite connections. No close friends among the mafia kids either.

“Then tell me about your parents.” That made him stop. His eyes cut back to her, sharper now. “Why the hell would you care?” “Because I want to know what makes someone like you,” she said. Her voice was steady. “People aren’t born like this.” Ricci’s smile slipped. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “You want to know? Fine.” His voice dropped lower, almost flat. “My father left before I could remember his face. My mother…” He let out a short, humorless laugh.

I was here. And I would not leave without her. "Giulianna," I said. My voice didn’t need to rise. It didn’t need to shout. It split the air anyway, every syllable slow and loaded, a warning and a vow. Her father stepped in front of her like a damn wall of stone. Dressed in a suit that cost more than some men made in a year, with a face polished from decades of cruelty. “You’re making a mistake, Ricci.” he snapped. “This is a private event.”

And trust is big in my career, can't risk anything. "Hyland," Came the voice behind two very large brutish men. "Giovanni Ricci," I got up from the chair and extended my hand as I watched the brutes sidestep to reveal this short, stout, bald, overweight man with a horrendous mole on the side of his left cheek. "So, tell me, why did your father, the great Salvatore Moretti, allow your mother to name you Hyland?" He laughed as his belly jiggled and his double chin bounced as he shook my hand.

"Yes, for the holiday, yes, this is perfect. Our family…." "No, not the holidays but maybe after, for a few days at least." "And you will stay with me, yes, at the palazzo." "I'm not sure that's a good idea; what will your family think?" "You are Ricci; they will think nothing." He's exactly what I expected, straight across the board. I knew that for him, he was scenting fresh blood. One son is a screw-up, the other is off in Egypt digging up Ramses or some shit, and the only grandson is doing his best to follow in his father's footsteps. He's not quite there yet at seventeen, but close.

“Yeah. Just now.” “Okay. Now tell me, what happened?” Claire instantly held her throbbing head. “I saw him at the resort, Haruka.” “Who did you see?” Haruka frowned. With trembling lips Claire replied, “My son's father.” Haruka, who was sipping her hot chocolate, almost spilled it because she was too shocked.

They’ve just clashed two weeks ago, so there’s no way that nerd would forget. Noel pondered, a hand on his chin. "Are you the mayor?" He suddenly blurted out, startling Ricky. "Uh, no?" "The king?" "What? No." "Then, are you the son of any important person in the educational or governmental industry?" Ricky paused. His forlorn father is a co-founder of an oil company with several international branches. That being said, he didn’t care whether his father got involved in governmental or educational or even anything else related to them.

VICENZO’S POV I watched my father limp towards Don Ricci and watched as they clasped each other’s backs in a hug. They were friends. It was as simple as that. The Moretti House owed its loyalty to the Riccis and vice Vera’s. “These legs don’t make me move so much anymore, my friend but I hear everything, nothing bad with my hearing,” my father was saying. “Ah, Alessio, always eager to talk business. Relax! We’re family or soon to be,” Don Ricci said with a short laugh as he winked at me.

"So good of you to come, Victor. You can leave us, Grinder." Grinder departed, his lingering gaze fueling the underlying tension. Despite our differences, my father and I always clashed, regardless of the subject at hand. "How many times have I asked you not to use my given name, Ricardo?" I retorted, addressing my father by his first name—a reminder of my rebellion against the outdated traditions he clung to. Ricardo Racini, a man shaped by the darkened streets of Italy, had risen from the depths of poverty and violence to reach America. But his journey had stripped him of his humanity, leaving behind only a distorted sense of family values and an insatiable thirst for revenge.

I said. “Of course,” he replied. That irritated me more than it should have. “Then tell me,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Was it Rico?” He looked at me. And for the first time since he walked in… He paused. That was enough for me to know something wasn’t right. “No,” he said finally. My brows pulled together slightly. “No?” I repeated. “If Rico wanted to hit you,” my father continued, his voice steady, controlled, “he would not start with Togo.”