Vongola Novels & Stories

Vlad was an underboss for The Odessa, a Russian crime organization which was a rival of the Bandoni Famiglia I pulled out my phone and opened the folder with every detail of Rositto. There were several pictures of him leaving the house he was living in, usually at night. And then, finally, I had the recording of his call with Vlad. Apparently, Rositto had a thumb drive he wanted to sell to Vlad in exchange for a new hiding place accompanied with a million buck “Holy sh*t!” my father cursed after a while of going through the file. “How did you get all this?” he asked, excitement dripping in his voice.

The chaos he thrived on. He stood standing, not moving an inch from the window side. He could already tell who was behind the creaking opening noise of the door behind him. "Who did you say owed us five million dollars in debt?" He dropped off the whiskey glass at the edge of the tiles of the window and swiftly turned around to meet the man in black, going by the name Sergio. “Clara Winston Diere, boss. She’s the third aunt of Olivia Derie.” Vincenzo's grin stretched out with malice hearing that name again—OLIVIA DERIE. His gaze swept across the room, tiredly he slumped onto the couch graciously, his legs raised high above the other until they were crossed majestically on each other.

As if on cue, a call from +374 came in, I quickly opened the app and picked the call. “Hello, who is this?” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Hello, miss Vittoria, Vittoria Russo, or is it Balotelli?” “It doesn't matter,” I said, calmly. “What do you want?” “So you're ready to talk with us? Good.” “Just tell me what you want?” “We need a spy, Miss Russo, and we want you to be the one.” “A spy for what?” “We want you to spy on Ricardo Lombardi. We know you hate him, he killed your father didn't he?”

Laughing. “That's her,” Talana whispered. “That's my mother.” Katerina’s voice was shaky. “You look just like her.” Talana lifted the first drive. “Plug it in.” Matteo inserted it into the portable laptop they brought. “Booting up now... Give it a second.” A screen opened with a symbol: a blood-red rose and a phrase beneath it: Operazione Rosalina – Authorization Level: Omega Nero Massimo frowned. “What the hell is Omega Nero?”

The only place she allowed her face to be seen by those who feared and worshipped her name. Luciana sat on a throne of forged black marble, flanked by two ancient lion busts. Around her, figures in masks knelt in silence. Their robes bore a single insignia stitched in blood-thread: a circle within a dagger’s hilt. The mark of the Velate Infernali. “I want the list of names,” Luciana said calmly. “The ones that turned after Giovanni’s fall. If they’ve pledged to Maria Moretti, I want proof. If they’ve pledged to Aria... I want them followed.”

A voice sliced through the silence, Aurelio's voice. He stepped forward in a cold and cruel voice. “Treason. And that means… Off. With. His. Head!.” A slow smile curled at the corner of Angelo's lips, empty of warmth but enough to reveal his dimples. He didn't look at Aurelio. His eyes remained locked on the trembling man before him. “Vito,” He called, almost softly. The enforcer, Vito Vitale stepped forward without hesitation, cracking his knuckles as he stared at the traitor.

He slid a photograph across the table. Luca’s gaze dropped to it. A man. Mid-twenties. Sharp cheekbones, full mouth twisted in a defiant half-smirk. Storm-gray eyes that looked straight into the camera like a challenge. Dark hair falling artfully over his forehead. Beautiful in a way that felt dangerous. “My youngest,” Vitale said. “Alessio.” The room went dead silent. Then chaos. “You’re joking,” one of Giovanni’s capos spat. “A fag? You’re offering us a—”

365 Days to Fall in Love with Mr. Mafia Boss The rain in Milan smelled like gasoline and wet stone. I pulled my coat tighter, but the February chill had already settled into my bones. Not that I could afford to care about comfort. Not when I was standing outside Velluto Nero, the club everyone in the city whispered about but no one admitted to entering. They said the owner didn’t have a name. Just a title: Il Capo. The Boss. I wasn’t here for rumors. I was here because my brother owed him €300,000. And as of three days ago, Luca had vanished.

The smiles that never quite reached his eyes when he thought I wasn’t looking. He wanted me to believe nothing had happened. I wasn’t convinced. ~Vincent~ I checked my phone just after two in the morning. Hugh’s message had come in almost two hours earlier. Partial name. “R. Varga.” Old Volkov-adjacent. Moved in the same circles as your mother around the time the photo was taken. Last known area: the old docks near Pier 9, the ones that used to belong to the Varga crew before they got wiped out. Still digging.

My tongue flicked out to lick my dry lips, imagining the taste of harsh scotch and hot skin on his mouth. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across Vittorio's face. "Rocco made a massive mistake dropping you on my doorstep." I tore my eyes away from his lips, clenching my jaw tight. "You're a ruthless bastard, Moretti." "I am," Vittorio murmured, leaning back against the leather cushion as his dark gaze devoured me. "But right now, I'm the only bastard keeping you alive." He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a folded piece of heavy paper stamped with the Falcone family crest, and tossed it onto the table between us.