Vongola Primo Novels & Stories

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—”

His presence was imposing, his gaze was intense, and his expression was that of a lion about to catch its prey. I had a bad feeling. “Chiara, may I introduce you to the signori of Italy (gentlemen of Italy),” my father said in a serious manner. “Marcelo Greco, capo of the Casamonica and our host; Paolo Esposito, capo of the Sacra Corona Unita; Stefano Lombardi, capo of the Camorra; and Alessandro D'Amato, capo of the Cosa Nostra.” Alessandro nodded, and the name hit me like a punch.

"The games I play usually end in blood." Ivan didn't dare move, just glared at me. "Do you have any idea who you're messing with?" I smiled, about to say something. Just then, the crowd parted. A man in a black silk shirt strolled over, oozing a dangerous, magnetic charm with every step. He had the classic profile of an Italian man—deep green eyes, dark brown hair that was just the right amount of messy. Victor Bellini. The Godfather of Italy's largest mafia family.

She sat down, placed her hands flat on the table, and met every pair of eyes in the room one by one until each man looked away first. All except one. The one at the far end of the table. Late forties, heavy-set, a thick gold watch on his wrist and small pale eyes that didn't move when she met them. He just kept looking. Measuring. Like he was trying to find the seam in something. His name was Vitale. Lorenzo had briefed her on all six that morning. Vitale ran the southern ports. Twenty years in De Luca service. Loyal, Lorenzo had said, as far as he knew.

Bang. Bang. A slight knock echoed into the office. Dante sat at his table, focused on his system. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Come in,” he uttered. Creak. The door glided open. Victor walked in, one hand still on the door, holding it wide open. “Dante, he is here,” Victor announced. A man walked in. Andrea Lombardi—the best and most well-known intellectual detective in Rome. Dante’s gaze didn’t leave his monitor. He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on his mouse.

Then, the silence was shattered by the sharp sound of a chair scraping back. Domenico Romano stalked across the polished floor toward me, his face etched with exhaustion and patrician disgust. He was one of the two men overseeing the Romano contribution, the one who saw the organization first and the family second. “Volkov,” he spat, keeping his voice low but saturated with fury. “I demand to know what kind of madman you are. I have just received the damage reports from Naples. Your Capos, acting under the ‘North Wind Blows’ protocol, have not only frozen Salvatore’s funds, they have executed a scorched-earth policy against any business, no matter how small or tangential, that ever traded a

A man in a crisp black affluent suit stood above me, with a business smile hanging on his otherwise crafty face. Vincenzo Volonte. The Big V. “This is Vincenzo Volonte, Mr. Giannini’s Personal Assistant. You must be Ms. Astor.” The prominent Italian accent and piercing-eagle inspection still me in front of his extended hand. Personal Assistant, huh?

Daniel reached for Miliani's hand and held it firmly. Lorenzo Romano, the capo (caporegime) with his entire family stood alongside Antonio Romano, famously named as the padrino, and his family before the main entrance, shining in their virtue. The air around was screaming danger, authority, power and dominion which did not fail to exhilarate Daniel's mind. He had been waiting for this day since forever, to finally stand more than equal to this sickly rotted Romanos.