Ten Years For His Sicilian Lie Novels & Stories

He laid it on the table between them, the image of their laughter looking like a target in the center of a firing range. ​Caro picked it up. She didn't gasp. She didn't cry. She simply grew very, very still. She flipped it over, read the four words, and slowly placed it back on the table. ​"Ten years," she whispered, her voice a ghost of itself. "We earned ten years, Alessandro." ​"I thought I had buried them," he said, his voice a low, guttural growl of fury. "I thought the trail was cold. I killed everyone who knew our names."

MAD “Siciliano had been in the mafia for generations. Yes, we’ve lost family members, associates, and friends over the years, but I didn’t choose this life. I was born into it. I’ve adapted it, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. And I have successfully turned the family business legit, but when you’re a Siciliano, you will always be a mafia, and people have always had this cautious and fearful look in their eyes whenever they see me.”

I was hoping to be wrong. The air in my lungs turns to lead. The implications cascade through my mind, a devastating chain reaction of collapsing alliances. "Are you absolutely certain?" The demand is sharp, cutting through the silence. "I verified the routing sequence three times," Stefano confirms, stepping back slightly, as if bracing for a physical reaction. "The capital funding this war, the money paying for the chaos on our streets... it is Sicilian." The room spins, the edges of my vision blurring with pure, toxic rage.

I'll burn it all to the ground before I let them win. I pull out my phone, dialing my most trusted men. My voice is low, cold, as I issue the orders. My mind races, calculating every move, the danger, the blood that will spill. It's not just about territory anymore; it’s about making sure no one forgets who owns Sicily. Sicily is mine. It always has been.

, She hustled me out of the car and didn't even look back. Another time, I would tell her to go fuck herself. Bringing me here and not moving a single stone was the same as me being alone in this battle. However, it's no longer just about our deal or enjoying my prospective clients, but also finding out if this Laurent was the same one I saw delivered to his death years ago... ━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━ Sicily, ten years ago

He wasn't relaying facts; he was relaying a trauma he hadn't personally experienced, the primal fury of the Sicilian heart. An insult of honor. To a Romano, especially the triplets who share one singular, savage spirit, that is a death warrant. Domenico would calculate the cost of the insult. Rocco and his brothers calculate the cost of the blood necessary to wash it away. Gutierez signed his own execution order. “The report, Ivan. Skip the preamble. What was the outcome of the insult?” I pressed, leaning over the console.

he asked. The man replied, “I heard it’s in the heart of Sicily. It’s heavily armed and owned by a powerful and dreadful man. The whole of Sicily fears him because of the men he controls. He has many people doing dirty work for him. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes. One wrong move, and he pulls the trigger. He doesn’t give second chances to anyone who betrays him. I also heard he once killed a man who took a flower from his garden.” “He killed a man because of a flower?” Carden asked.

They found him in an abandoned village when he was just 10 years old and took him in. He returned the semiautomatic handgun back into its place and closed the drawer. He looked around the closet, he had not noticed earlier but it was a large one. He was going to miss it, he was going to miss the whole of Sicily. The boss had called for his presence in Turin a few weeks earlier for the purpose of another mission. He had little idea about what this mission was about but he knew he would be far away from sicily for a while.

I let out a low chuckle. “You’re outnumbered, Marcello. It’s you against the entire Sicilian Mafia. Your entire organization has gone to shit,” I snarled, my voice dropping to barely below a whisper. “You’re lying,” he gritted. “We were expanding to the United Kingdom. I can call them over. You can’t win this war, bastard. It doesn’t matter how many of my men you take out. There’ll always be more that you don’t know about.”

No judgment. No reaction. Like Scheherazade, telling one story each night to stay alive. He gave me one hour a day. Half an hour to listen. Half an hour to teach me how to shoot. And another half hour, his doctor worked on my hands. “What you tell me had better be true.” “Otherwise, it’s not worth my time.” A month later, no one in Sicily dared to disrespect me anymore. And then one day, I stepped out of the house.