Venice Heist Novels & Stories

“A data farm in Milan, a private vault in Venice. Safe houses in Palermo and Catania. A legal office in Naples that files papers under charity names. They use the charities to move weapons and people.” Juan felt the room spin a little, but he put his palm to the glass and steadied himself. “You’re sure about Venice?” “Positive,” Giuseppe rasped, and his voice was small. “The vault is under a bank branch. It’s a private vault they access at night.” Juan looked at Dominic. “We need a man on the vault." Dominic nodded. “I’ll see it done. Tell me your men you want on it too." Giuseppe breathed raggedly and then laughed, a bitter sound. “You think killing me or holding me will help? They will com

VINCENZO’S POV “Where is my money, Milano?” I grunted, as if annoyed, because the hell, I was. If there was a word more than annoyed, then I was surely that. This fucker, tied to a chair, covered in blood, sweat and saliva in the middle of one of my abandoned warehouse, stole from me. One hundred thousand dollars. The money for my merchandise coming from Italy to Russia. The fucker squandered it on women and useless materials things, thinking I wouldn’t hold him accountable.

Too dangerous for a girl who knew nothing about what goes in the underworld. Cursing out, I exited the en-suite. Grabbing my vibrating phone, I received the call without looking at the name. “Capo, our five shipments are stolen.” “Cosa? Hai scoperto chi è stato?” (What? Did you find out who did it?) “Sí, Capo.” (Yes, Boss) “Chi é?” (Who?) “The stessa person who attaccato Dante and went after you and your fiancée in Hawaii.” (Same, attacked)

Later, under a moonlit Zagreb sky, Croatian troops and Marchesi mobsters moved under Vincenzo’s coordination. Unmarked vans pulled up beside two docks—a silent ballet of flashlights, whispering radios, and disciplined footsteps. From Lombard to Balkan, the second strike was underway.

Vincenzo still had his eyes closed, leaning against the sofa, a deep scowl on his face. In the seven years I’d known him, he didn't blink when his arms routes were hijacked. When three East Coast families teamed up to hunt him down, he just smiled and lit a cigarette. He never drank out of sadness. The one and only exception... was for a woman named Genevieve. I walked out of the club but didn't go far. I bought a water at a bodega in the back alley and leaned against the wall to wait. Twenty minutes later, a pitch-black Maybach pulled up to the front entrance. Bulletproof. Chicago plates.

Ignoring the fallen enforcer, he lunged at Luca, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall. “Where is Vance, Vitale? Where is the key to the money?” Thorne demanded, his voice a whip, anger and fear intertwined. Luca looked up, eyes meeting Thorne’s with unflinching intensity. A slow, cold smile curved his mouth—the smile of a man who had already claimed victory, a man untouched by fear even in chains. “You’re too late, Thorne,” Luca said, voice rich with triumph, controlled but dangerous. “He’s gone. And without him, you get nothing. Enjoy the tax audit, American. You just bought yourself a whole lot of questions from the Swiss police.”

She took the glass, and under his encouraging gaze, downed it in one gulp. Whatever she was about to hear, she knew it was going to be intense. A little alcohol might help steady her nerves. Once he saw that she had finished, Carlo's expression grew serious. "Her previous targets were smaller fortunes," he began. "But recently, she set her sights on a very prominent billionaire in Italy. After his death, the billionaire's children became suspicious and started investigating her. Sienna fled to the U.S. and stashed away a significant amount of money. The billionaire's children then hired Matteo Cavalieri to take care of her and recover the stolen fortune."

“Chris, listen to me. If something happens to me, you need to look after her.” “What? No. I want you safe. Hand yourself in.” “I’m in love with her.” “Stace. You’ve lost it.” “If the hit comes through and I am not here, tell the agency that their payment is the diamonds that are hidden in the light fitting in room 3590 at the Venetian,” I reply. “Diamonds. What fucking diamonds?” he yells. “I can’t fucking believe this. You have stolen fucking diamonds from Vikinos. Jesus Christ, Stace!”

"The boss will verify the ciphers first. If the routing numbers match, your sister lives to see tomorrow." "No! We exchange it now!" Serena demanded, a flash of her inherent Moretti defiance breaking through her panic as she gripped the other side of the package. "Call Lorenzo! Let me hear her voice!" "You don't dictate the terms of a heist, princess," Marco sneered, tugging the ledger forcefully from her weak grip. "You're just the thief who-" Marco froze. The words died instantly in his throat. The smug, arrogant smirk on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden, paralyzing shock.

Ahead, the city glowed on the horizon, full of people who had no idea that a war was being waged in their midst. Vincent thought he'd broken me tonight. He'd shown me my brother in handcuffs, my face smeared across tabloid headlines, and he'd expected me to crumble. Instead, I was calculating. Sofia Voss. The son in Zurich. Elena Moretti's desperate hunger for an heir. All the pieces were on the board now. All I had to do was move them in the right order. I climbed into Dominic's car, and we drove back toward Manhattan in silence. The city lights grew brighter, swallowing the darkness, and somewhere out there Vincent was already planning his next move.