Ten Years For His Sicilian Lie Novels & Stories

“You’re twenty-seven.” I nodded slowly. “The agreement was supposed to expire this year.” Nadia looked toward the locked corridor. “Then someone has been waiting ten years for this moment.” Suddenly the speakers crackled. A man’s voice echoed through the room. “You finally understand.” Lucien raised his gun. “Who are you?” The voice laughed softly. “The man your families betrayed ten years ago.” The lights went out. Then the emergency lights came on. At the end of the corridor stood a man. Scarred.

Scarface uttered and stepped out to the light. “No Leo, you can’t do this to me,” Cain muttered and finally began to show signs of fear. He must have realized that his little nephew wasn’t as forgiving as he thought. “Giovanni, you have been the consigliere of this organization for years, the wise guy… I want your impartial judgment,” Leo said to the tall middle aged man that had been standing silently behind him. Giovanni sighed and bowed his face. “By the laws guiding the Mafia society, betrayal and murder of a fellow made man is punishable by death, but murder of a Don is punishable by death of the Sicilian tie,” he announced.

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.

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.

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.

I am accused of violating the agreement, which tarnishes my honourable reputation. I look up to find Viktor peering down at me with a scowl on his face. "We left Sicily on good terms with the Venturi family. It was the Ferrari family we executed as a favour to the Venturi's." Viktor says as he tries to figure out why Sandro believes it was us that executed his father.