The God Father Novels & Stories

My emaciated body, all sharp angles and jutting ribs, met the cool air of the car. My shame had been torn to shreds by Lorenzo himself, the day I stood in that courtroom three years ago. I closed my eyes. The memories flooded back. The trial. Three years ago. Don Lorenzo Romano, the Godfather who controlled half of New York’s underworld. He stood on the witness stand in his expensive, tailored suit. He was elegant. He was cruel. And he showed the jury my deepest scars—the ones no one could see. “Members of the jury,” Lorenzo’s voice echoed, cold and calm. “My wife, Isabella Rossi, was six years old when she watched her mother get shot to death. Her father ran, leaving her mother behind to di

the old one, the one she should have turned off, the one she had kept on because Dante's number was in it and she wasn't ready to lose that last ordinary thing. Dante's name was on the screen. She answered. "Tell me," he said, skipping hello entirely, "that this is a joke." "Good morning, Dante." "Val. It says De Luca. Lorenzo De Luca. The same Lorenzo De Luca who we have spent five years believing killed our father?" "Keep your voice down." "I am in my apartment. I can use whatever volume I want." She could hear him moving, pacing, the specific rhythm of her brother when he was trying not to shout.

he said, I just smiled, exactly what I wanted him to see, yet he wasn’t here for it. I smiled faintly as the bishop’s eyes scanned my whole body, it felt weird yet for some reason I wanted him to see it, i needed the reassurance that everything was okay with me, then he unmuted his television. Dante Moritto’s club gunned down last night. That was the headline, the bishop sighed, I quickly turned and wondered if he was okay, my heart cared if he was doing fine. “ Do you think he is fine?” I asked the bishop innocently.

“You done with your last words? Good. Now get the hell out of my estate.” Cassiano runs all of North America now. Leo’s mother trembled with fear. She scrambled to drag her crippled son off the floor. But Leo fought her like a rabid dog. “I’m not leaving! Aurora is my woman! How can you be so shameless, sleeping with your nephew’s sloppy seconds!” The news of the Godfather’s grand wedding to me had shaken the entire global underworld. These were facts. Written in blood. Unforgettable. Only he was still living in his own pathetic dream world.

Disbelief. The God of crime was here. Jonas’ lips move, but the blade speaks first. Past his throat. A swift slash that sends him reeling back. His words gurgles, throat sprouting. “Facile, Papà. Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t fight it.” Dakor fists Jonas’ hair, watching him convulse and fade. “You were the best fuck I’ve had and will ever have. It pains me to do this, but Familial comes first. I saluti del Padrino.” (Greetings from the Godfather.)

Part of me wants to bolt for the door, but the larger part—the part that wakes up every morning wrapped in Vincenzo’s arms—knows it’s time. My father strides in exactly on time, because Diego Sanchez is never late and never early. The maître d’ rushes to greet him, practically bowing. Dad has that effect on people—they either fear him or want to impress him. Usually both. I stand as he approaches, smoothing my hands down my shirt. It’s one of Vincenzo’s favorites—light blue that supposedly brings out my eyes. “Macerlo.” Dad pulls me into a brief, stiff hug. “You look well.”

“Thats what I have gone to figure out. Father is certain that he has no mole on his end, there's no outsiders either which leaves the your end as the only option.” The godfather took a deep breath,it was heavy. I couldn't dare to imagine the effect this news had on him. The godfather was a man of legacy, of principle and one way to hurt a man like that was to hurt his legacy and shake his principles. “Rest assured I will figure this out.” He said at last as he went back to his food. I had expected him to start yelling out orders but his actions did not surprise me either. He was cool, calm and collected. “Have at your meal” he gestured, “we're not going to let some mole ruin dinner for us no

No movement. One of the Godfather’s attendants stepped forward. His eyes passed over the broken painting, then settled on Samantha. His face twisted into a cold, ruthless scowl—no trace of politeness remained, only unyielding authority.“You will come with us,” he gritted out.“The Godfather wishes to speak with you.” The room fell deathly silent. All sound vanished, swallowed up by the thick, suffocating dread hanging in the air.

I traded my sight and half my life for the sight of her and her bodyguard going at it in my own study. For her fake affection while she carried another man’s child. For her calling me a "useless blind man." All that stupid devotion, that sacrifice, that filthy betrayal—it was all frozen solid with the winter rain in Chicago. In the darkness, I’d already carved out that weak heart. I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy oak doors. My father was waiting in his study. Don Salvatore Scott. One of the most respected godfathers in Sicily. He was seventy-five, his hair completely white, but his eyes were still sharp as a hawk’s.

I asked. “The Godfather is automatically picked as the mafia leader with the largest territory all over the world. The one who controls the most territories in other countries in Europe, America, and other places. That also means he’s the person with the most connections, influence, and who gets along with most mafia organizations in the world. That’s who automatically becomes the Godfather.” “Who is the Godfather?”