Mafia Quotes

“And while the rain swept across the desolate countryside like a cleansing force, they made love to each other – their union not that of heated bodies in need of release, nor that of kindred spirits in certainty of love, but that of broken souls in search of solace.”
― Laureline Ducros, Spy Dust

“I was the boy who killed his first man at eleven.

I was the teenager who crushed his cousin’s throat at seventeen.

I was the man who bathed in his enemies’ blood without a flicker of remorse, who relished in their screams as if it was a fucking Mozart sonata.

Monsters are created, not born.

Bullshit.

I was born a monster. Cruelty ran in my veins like poison. It ran in the veins of every Vitiello man, passed on from father to son, an endless spiral of monstrosity.

I was a born monster shaped into an even worse monster by my father’s blade and fists and harsh words.

I was raised to become Capo, to rule without mercy, to dish out brutality without a second thought.

I was raised to break others.

When Aria was given to me in marriage, everyone waited with baited breath to see how fast I’d break her like my father broke his women. How I’d crush her innocence and kindness with the force of my cruelty, with relentless brutality.

Breaking her would have taken little effort. It came naturally to me.

A man born a monster, raised to be a monster, bound to be a monster to become Capo.

I was gladly the monster everyone feared.

Until her. Until Aria.

With her, I didn’t have to cover up my darkness.

Her light shone brighter than my darkness ever could.

With her, I didn’t want to be the monster. I wanted to shield her from that part of my nature.

But I was born a monster. Raised to break others.

Not breaking her would come with a price.

A price a monster like myself shouldn’t risk paying.”
― Cora Reilly, Luca Vitiello

“Enjoying the view?” I asked, finally, tired of his eyes drilling into the side of my head.
“Enjoying isn’t the right word,” he returned, swirling his amaretto. “It’s more a morbid fascination with your spiral into self-destruction.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“He swirled his drink and stared off into the crowd, terribly satisfied. “Have you ever seen a face so weirdly symmetrical? Put our man Luca Catenacci on a poster for…Sicilian cologne. Those genes? With the whole Vitelli-Marzano thing you’ve got going?” He issued a low whistle. “Unstoppable.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“I thought about the fruit of ancient tradition, oil like blood, and suddenly I realized that if olive oil was sacred, then this was sacrilegious.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“but his eyes were not scary. I thought they were the least frightening thing about him. They were a soothing gray color. I loved his eyes. They always made me feel calm.”
― Sem Thornwood, Deadly Nightshade

“Mafiosi don’t learn to do their jobs well in school, or by attending a human resources seminar. The values that make Mafia distinct and effective are not simply taught, but are ingrained from earliest childhood, altering the psychology of everyone involved: victims, perpetrators, and bystanders. It takes a village to raise a Mafia.”
― Justin Cascio

“Tonio had disappeared again into the kitchen—I heard him banging around some dishes. He had this habit of making a huge dish once or twice a week, then freezing it and eating the same thing for every meal until it was gone. Except for breakfasts, which were usually composed of a cappuccino and heaping spoonfuls of Nutella on saltine crackers. As someone who had a lot of feelings about food, I found it a fairly scandalizing arrangement, but I figured it would be just as upsetting if witnessed by the average person.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Hey, I didn’t realize you had more than one friend. Brava, brava, bravissima.”
“Eat your heart out, Tonio.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Romance, I thought, was a poor replacement for freedom.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“No offense,” said Tonio, in a way that suggested he hoped we took full offense, “but you two are the last people I’d accept lifestyle advice from.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Blood and oil. It’s on both our hands.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Mario “The Screwdriver” Tetragna—respected patriarch of his immediate blood family, much-feared don of the broader Tetragna Family that controlled drug traffic, gambling, prostitution, loan-sharking, pornography, and other organized criminal activity in San Francisco—was a five-foot-seven-inch, three-hundred-pound tub with a face as plump and greasy and smooth as an overstuffed sausage casing. It was hard to believe that this rotund specimen could have built an infamous criminal operation. True, Tetragna had been young once, but even then he would have been short, and he had the look of a man who’d been fat all his life. His pudgy, stubby-fingered hands reminded Vince of a baby’s hands. But they were the hands that ruled the Family’s empire.
When Vince had looked into Mario Tetragna’s eyes, he instantly realized that the don’s stature and his all too evident decadence were of no importance. The eyes were those of a reptile: flat, cold, hard, watchful. If you weren’t careful, if you displeased him, he would hypnotize you with those eyes and take you the way a snake would take a mesmerized mouse; he would choke you down whole and digest you.”
― Dean Koontz, Watchers

“…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…
The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing.
Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence.
Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late.
Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients…
People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open…”
― Олег Лурье, A Mirror above the Abyss

“…Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.
The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen…
After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded..”
― Oleg Lurye

“Oh my gawd!” Dawn squealed, walking down the hallway with Jules filling her in on the night before. For a woman almost in her 50s, she sure had some energy and pep. Sometimes she sounded like a schoolgirl. “Shh!” Jules reached over, tugging on Dawn’s arm as they walked down the hall.
“Don’t tell the whole world,” she chuckled. “Is it normal to feel like this? I mean, I get horny just thinking about it!” Jules whispered even more quietly.
“Hot damn, girl!” Dawn was the first to grab their usual corner table in the breakroom. “Whaddya mean is it normal? To crave—” Her voice got church mouse quiet, “—sex?” “Honey, yes with a capital Y. It is if it’s that good!” Dawn replied. “Lord, have you not felt this way ever before?” she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief. Jules shook her head no. “But you know what keeps it so hot for me, Dawn? That I feel completely in control of the situation. I had him come over, we hung out and had fun, and I screwed him.” She said that part with a big grin. “I even wanted him to leave afterwards, and I have no desire to pursue it any further!” She didn’t believe herself, but hoped if she kept repeating this thought her feelings would soon follow.”
― Heather C. Adams, Wanted For Desire

“If I have no need for you, I have no use for you.”
― J. Denison Reed, Clifford's War: The Bluegrass Battleground

“Marcus pulled in to Jules’ drive way. His car looked like one you might see an older man driving. Beige, long, some sort of Buick. He didn’t see her waiting on the rocking chair of her screened-in porch. The motion light had no reason to be on since she had been sitting out there for some time, enjoying the crisp evening air. Shaw appeared to be fidgety and nervous. He ran his hands through his tousled hair, trying to comb it through. He checked his nose for random objects and then he grabbed a water bottle and gulped down the entire thing in a matter of seconds. When he finally exited the squeaky car, he brushed down his shirt and jeans to freshen them. It was quite amusing to watch this man. The more nervous he seemed, the more confident she became. Yup, she was going to fuck him. Hard. She was going to fuck him as if her life depended on it, and in some ways it did. Without getting back in touch with this power she had found, she was a meek little girl just following people around. She did it with her parents and then she did it with her ex-husband. Maybe the way she had come to her current power wasn’t the most conventional, but Jules was never meant to be a conventional girl. She tried to fit into the conventional role with Joey for 13 years and was never this happy or strong. ”
― Heather C. Adams

“So my cousin does some things. Things that make him very rich.” Juan’s tone seemed as shaky as the old truck they were in. 
“What do you mean?” She squinted her eyes at him to examine his tone better.
“Just don’t ask, mami. Just take something if he offers you.” Jules hadn’t really decided if she was going to take any charity from this man. She wanted to check all her options, and she knew Juan was caring for her, but she was ready to start feeling strong on her own again. She didn’t know if that would be by getting back out in the field with her clients or taking this loan and starting her business now rather than later.
 ”
― Heather C. Adams, Wanted For Desire

“Ding
The sound woke Shaw. “Mami, I’m back early,” the text read. He didn’t mean to read it, just that damn detective personality of his. That and the fact that the text was lit up on her screen. He knew he wasn’t the only one, but he tried to ignore it. Does this guy treat her right? Does he make her come or only worry about himself? He felt a scowl forming on his face.”
― Heather C Adams, Wanted For Desire

“We’re cynical because we know the world. If we were optimists, we’d also be idiots.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Innocence and idiocy aren’t the same thing. Sometimes it’s brave. Sometimes it’s just how a person is.”
“So, ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars’?” I raised an eyebrow; he elaborated. “Oscar Wilde.”
I liked that. “It’s not wrong to look at the stars.” But it also wasn’t some failing of will or fall from grace that kept my eyes fixed to the ground. I’d just been down here in the gutter long enough to know to watch my step.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“What would you do for your family?” Savino asks. “How far would you go?”
Because he’s done more. He’s spilled oil and blood for this family, and sometimes I wonder if they aren’t the same thing.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Lorel once told me that fate is a poet, organizing beauty out of chaos. I believed that for a long time—that life happens to a person, buoying them along on its tide whichever way it pleases, instead of bending and shaping itself around my will. And even now I’m not sure that I can entirely discard the idea, because God knows my life has spiraled into gothic prose, and even in the depths of my insanity I could not have thought up the repeating rhythms of horrible motif. Blood as oil, oil as sacred chrism, the suffocating paradox of its sacred and sensual nature, and can oil really run in a person’s blood? Because when I think of one, I think of the other—they are inseparable in my mind. When I think of the times I dipped my fingers in green-gold oil, memory calls forth the image of blood on a warehouse floor, and blood mixed with oil in the creases of my hands.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Massimo’s a grenade,” she said. “You throw it. Then you run.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“He had the sleeves rolled up on his bathrobe, and it was a fairly jarring, chaotic picture he painted, yet somehow he made it seem lazily elegant. Like a sculptor shaping a lump of clay with muddy hands, like feeling along the edges of rolled-out pastry dough to check its thickness, or scoring a flour-dusted bâtard—something weirdly bold and confident about it. The seductive art of Nutella, as taught by one Tonio Salone. Unnerving.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“You’re a Marzano, that’s enough. You are testament to a union made decades ago, between Vitellis in Brooklyn and Marzanos in Sicily. For over twenty years, we’ve done what we could to keep that tie strong. We’ve made sacrifices.” The fire popped behind him, but he didn’t flinch. “What would you do for your family, Pia?”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“I thought about olive oil, about the sacred depravity. I thought about how oil meant power, and how Savino Vitelli was testament to that—he was untouchable, ancient, godlike, and olive oil had made him that way, much as it had made Odysseus something more than a mere mortal. It elevated.
And I wondered, if I let it, if olive oil would do the same for me.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“Pia, look, I’ve always known something was going on, but you don’t ask these questions—it’s a family thing, alright? I don’t keep up with what my little brother does. It’s just how our family works, it’s like how the Rondolfos down the street do palm-reading stuff in town by the dry-cleaner’s, you know the Rondolfos? Every family has stuff like that, that’s how it is, just go with it because they aren’t hurting anyone. Hey, it isn’t drugs—it could be drugs, but it isn’t.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil

“The smoke was heavy in the frigid air. Bitter in my throat. I leaned against the railing, stared out at the city: crawling traffic, flashing lights, darkness hanging over New York without a promise of sunrise to come. I was reminded of the nights we’d stood on this same balcony, a drink in Massimo’s hand, ice clinking against his teeth. Tonio exhaling long spirals of gray smoke into the neon-tinted night. Rubbing oil out of my palm, smoking one of Tonio’s cigarettes and taking drinks when my cousin offered them. I was reminded of last night when we’d stood in the courtyard outside the ballroom, blood on Massimo’s face and acrid smoke in the air. Ice water dripping from Tonio’s hand. And a shadow in the golden light spilling from the doorway.
I missed Lorel, and Massimo, and the people we’d once been. Though maybe we’d always been the people we were now, just buried beneath layers. Regardless, I thought Mamma and Papa wouldn’t recognize the girl standing here now on a dark New York balcony, smoking one last cigarette, blood and oil in the creases of her hands.”
― Abigail C. Edwards, And We All Bled Oil