The Godfather Novel Novels & Stories

“I like this one. It tastes good.” He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, before pouring more wine into my glass. He raises it to his mouth, taking a slow sip. I watch, almost mesmerized, as the drink slides down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement, making it jump just slightly. "What book are you reading?" His attention shifts to the novel in my hand, pulling me out of my thoughts. "The Billionaire's Unwanted Bride," I answer, my voice soft but clear.

My name is Violet. I was the consigliere to the Leon mafia family in New York, the woman who drafted every rule in this underworld. Yet Drake Leon, the man I held close for a decade, was now defying them all. The Godfather’s winter banquet was the most exclusive event in New York’s underworld. Anyone seated at the main table held the power of life and death over half the city, and the seat to the right of the head chair—the one that should have been mine—was now occupied by a girl in an out-of-place white dress.

However, only after seeing that scene with my own eyes did I realize that six years of devotion were all a joke. My father, Antonio Corleone, was a man the entire New York underworld respectfully called “Godfather.” He built the Corleone empire from nothing. Every dock, every port, and every prime stretch of real estate in the city—half of it bore our name. He was ruthless, decisive, and a man who made no mistakes. Yet, with me, he was different. He never let me stain my hands with blood or witness the darkness of the world we lived in. He raised me proud, clean, and untouched by the grime of the streets.

My father, Don Matteo was standing by the door, by his side, an even taller man, who sported the same sort of neck tattoo that Leone had, and the sort of attitude that made it easy to know he was most probably Leone's father, even without the semblance. Leone laughed, and slowly, he put his gun away, then took a step back. "Don Matteo," he said, venom lacing his words. "We meet again." I blinked, taking in a sharp breath as my father slowly walked down to us. "We meet again, Don Leone." Leone never replied my father, and the taller man came between them. "You seem to already know Leone. He is all set to be announced as the official Godfather. He has also taken over all of Brave Hearts."

Seb and I went straight to my study. The Italian people called him Signore Gerardo. My men called him Padrino Gerardo, meaning The Godfather Gerardo. And ever since I was seventeen, I called him Papa. Gerardo Sanguin sat on the swiveling chair behind my desk in my study watching the wall sized flat screen TV across from him. It showed five different places in the world — one in New York, one in London, one in California and one in Las Vegas. Our shooters were in place for all the heads of The Biancis—the mafia family I had to get rid of. The first one we witnessed was of Vincenzo Biancis', eldest son, who was attending a birthday party in California. People around him shouted when they sa

She wanted to experience life because her nose is always stuck in a book her whole life. Alessandro Niccolo D'Angelo grew up with a strict grandfather who wanted to turn him into the monster he is today. His name meant as a defender of men as well as the conqueror of people who always comes out victorious. He has a mother that shows him how love is supposed to feel, but the tragedy he encountered couldn't change his tainted soul. He is the Capo of the biggest mafia in New York, known as the silent but deadly king of the night. Life wasn't simple in the Mafia world. He endured all the tasks for his life and the familia, now his task is to become someone invincible.

“There was no sugma in the hair sectio—” Darryl opens his door to the sight of his Godfather slumped down on the floor, unmoving. Katcha is leaning on a wall with a wet towel draped over her - uniform all ruined by a shade of red splashed unto her in irregular spaces. Goldie stood above them all, picking up the pieces of broken wood that were once a coffee table. The living room furniture is toppled except for the couch. A piece of cloth drenched in red liquid is discarded in one corner. The smell of iron fills the air, making the young man feel nostalgic despite knowing that this is always a bad sign unless the smell came from an enemy.

Then he turned a‍nd w⁠alked away. I wa​tched him cross the ga‍rden, his limp pronounced, his shoulder‌s​ hunched. He w‍al⁠ked through the​ a⁠rc​hway and disappeared. I was⁠ al‌one with the G‍odfather. Don Sal⁠vatore pic⁠ked up hi⁠s she⁠ars. Snip⁠. "Come, chil‌d," he said, patt⁠ing​ the bench beside hi​m. "Tell me about America. An⁠d pou⁠r me some tea.‌ The wa​r ha⁠s‌ begun."

He comprehended then that he had been obsessed with her from the moment she stepped into his life. And he wasn't ready to lose her. Not to Antonio, or Mateo. Vito’s violet eyes turned to flint, the last of his warmth evaporating as he stepped into the role he was born for. He was no longer just the Capo of La Tana di Salvatore anymore. He was the Capo dei Capi. “I am the Godfather now, Milan,” he rumbled, his voice carrying a clear authority that shocked her. “I will settle my accounts and conduct my business the only way I know how: with blood and finality. Do not try to interrogate me again.”

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