Tmnt 2012 Donnie Novels & Stories

In the chat window lay the message I had sent him hours earlier: "Are you done?" He called me. No answer. He called again. Still no answer. He summoned his assistant, Dante Russo. "Call Carlo. Ask if my wife is still there." The assistant made the call. His face changed. "Mr. Bellandi, Carlo said Donna waited until midnight, then left. She left alone." Something inside Matteo suddenly went hollow. He thrust the child into the nanny's arms and turned toward the door. Sienna chased after him. "Matteo! Where are you going? The ceremony isn't finished!"

“Faster than I expected. But good nevertheless.” My voice came out quiet. Steady. Resolved. “I’ve made up my mind.” A beat of silence. Then: a low, knowing chuckle. “Finally.”

The safe house was in an old building in lower Manhattan. My fingerprint opened the lock. Damon was sitting on the sofa. Unexpectedly, he was really injured. His left shoulder wrapped in a makeshift bandage. Blood was already soaking through the white gauze. "Who was it this time?" I asked, pulling out the medical kit. "Some punk from the Kozlov family," he grunted. "Thought he could make a move on my turf." I cut away his shirt.

“Start us off, Leo.” I laugh as TMNT starts up. “LEONARDO.” “DONATELLO.” Jay yells. “MICHEALANGLEO.” Ryan yells, making Jack laugh and whisper in Ryan’s ear. Jay and I could hear what he said. “That fits you so well.” Ryan has his mate. But we all stare at Raymond. He is stone faced. “I need to do something,” I tell Jeremy. “Close your eyes.” “What are you going to do?” Jeremy asks, holding me tightly.

Not the Tommy we knew, the one who could scale a tree faster than a squirrel, the one who could make us laugh until our sides ached. “I saw him smile the other night,” Donny said, breaking the quiet. His voice was low, like he didn’t want to scare the memory away. “Just for a second. I was telling him about the raccoon that stole my dinner out back.” A laugh tried to escape my chest. It didn’t quite make it. It caught in my throat, a painful lump of fear and relief. “You serious?” Donny nodded. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. “Dead serious. Little bastard took the whole burger. Didn’t even drop the bun.”

"When you were looking at that magazine, your eyes were glued to this ring. Couldn't look away." "So I bought it for you." There was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He had no idea I'd only stared at the ring so he could pay off his debt faster. The cold of the diamond crept up my finger and into my chest. I shivered. But he didn't need my help. Did he? The voice on the phone had just called him Don. The Angelo I knew was a broke kid drowning in mob debt. What a joke. "Three whole years," My voice came out cold. "A Don playing dirt-poor with me. Was it fun?"

Dante stood in front of the bathroom mirror knotting his tie three times before Tommy appeared in the doorway. "You look terrified." "I look fine." "You look like a man about to face a firing squad." Tommy leaned against the frame, smirking. "Which, to be fair, is a step up from six months ago when you were the firing squad." Dante pointed at the door. "Out." "Relax. He's good, man. He's really good for you." Tommy lost the smirk for a second, genuine underneath it. "I've known you a long time. I've never seen you look at anything the way you look at him."

Dominic had just gotten back from a shootout at the docks, still smelling like gunpowder. He casually ripped open a courier envelope. A stack of yellowing receipts and bank statements spilled out. And a photo. It was a picture of an old, bloody, slashed shirt. Next to it was a small note. The handwriting and words were exactly the same as the one slipped under his garage door with his painkillers over a decade ago. Written in neat handwriting: "It's getting cold. Dress warmly. Don't get hurt again. — V (Vivienne)" Dominic’s hands started to shake.

A half-smile rested on his lips, like a rich kid watching a performance. When the coin clicked against the table, the entire room fell silent. He was the newly installed Don. He was young and already notorious for bathing traitors in blood. He spoke only a few times during the meeting. When he did, his tone sounded casual, almost bored, as if he were choosing a casino for later that night. No one dared miss a single word. I knew he was dangerous. I understood it with perfect clarity. Yet the moment the coin left his fingers, my heartbeat slipped completely out of control.

And then she saw him. The Don. His shirt was gone, chest slick with sweat, the white bandage at his ribs already stained with red where stitches pulled against skin that refused to stay still. He fought like an animal caged too long—each strike measured but violent, each dodge precise. The man across from him was taller, broader, but it didn’t matter. The Don’s presence filled the ring like he was ten men at once. Selena’s pulse thudded. He should be resting. She had told him to rest. But here he was, standing in the middle of a fight like the bullet that nearly killed him meant nothing.