Vongola Primo Novels & Stories

Isabella exhaled, gripping her gun. “We go in silent. Get as close as possible before they realize we’re here.” Leo smirked. “Let’s end this.” Inside the Hangar – The Betrayal Unfolds Inside the massive hangar, Marcella stood across from Lorenzo Vitale, discussing the terms of their agreement. Vitale was a powerful man, his presence alone enough to make most criminals tremble. Marcella, however, looked completely at ease, her confidence unshaken. One of Vitale’s men handed her a document to sign.

(Translation: smuggled some drugs. "True that. But he owes us money. Either he pays or be killed." My blood ran cold at Erico's statement. Killed? I dropped my fork and looked at them with wide eyes. No one payed me much attention but Vincenzo. He was studying my reaction and anticipating what I will say next. "Who are you?" I asked with a fast beating heart. "Vincenzo Mercanti. Don of the Italian mafia. Number one mafia in Italy and USA." Vincenzo smiled evilly.

He asks me as his eyes stare at mine, I look at him intently trying to remember who he is--- or who he was, I have this feeling that I have seen him before, I just can't remember when and where. "Remember," He said, "I don't know you," I said, he chuckled and shook his head. "Primo Montenegro," My eyes widen when he mentioned the name-- he's the man behind the fall of Adriano Mafia and the rival of my father, I thought he's dead.

Romero added. "What about the branding?" I asked. Vic nods and pulled up a picture of a branded skin. It was Luca Romano. The man who used to be the head of the Romano Mafia. After the last time that we retaliated against them, Luca was left heavily wounded. We never confirmed his death and he never showed up afterward either. My breath hitched as I realized that it was the same as Luke's. Luca Romano was the heir before his father. Romero looked over at me with concern in his eyes.

Alfredo Fabri POV You see in this business you're either in or you're out. But the “out” in this case implies that you're no longer alive and far from the earthly realm. Getting into the world of organized crime is no child's play, and by virtue of swearing an OMERTÀ, an oath on the Saints, you're in for life. You never get out, never. But there was only ever one exception our little world had witnessed and that's in the case of Lorenzo Rizzo also known as “The Whisper”.

"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?