Richie~Banks

Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached for a small black bottle from the table. “I thought you would prefer the gentle way. Guess I was wrong.”

His words cut through me like a knife. He crouched down in front of me, cupping my chin with his cold, cruel hands. His fingers dug into my skin, forcing my mouth open, and I gasped in horror as he tilted the bottle.

The liquid slid down my throat, burning, choking. My body convulsed in protest, but I couldn’t stop him. The poison — Deadly Nightshade. I had used it before. And now I was forced to take it. 

A year to live.

His smirk deepened as he let go of me, watching with sadistic pleasure as I gagged, my hands flying to my mouth.

Tears stung my eyes. The bitter, metallic taste of death filled my mouth, and I could do nothing but cry. My vision blurred as the poison coursed through me, but I couldn’t let go of my rage.

Francesco’s voice was low, almost gentle, as he spoke the words that felt like a death sentence. “Sometimes, the person you once loved may end up killing you,” he said, the twisted satisfaction in his voice unmistakable.

~~~~~

But surrender is never simple in a game of power, revenge, and dangerous desire. Because this man doesn’t just want to own her — he wants to unmake her, unravel her, and turn her fire to ash.

And the most terrifying part? Find out!

The Vicious Scent Of The Mafia's Black Rose

The violent release of gun shots rented the air along the thick forest that leads to the main road just a few kilometres from the Dante’s mansion. 


The route has always been where the Dante's used to transport their illegal hard drug business since they moved to New York. 


Scar, Marshall's right hand man, moved swiftly like an agile predator, his assault relentless on Francesco's men. He slaughtered their throats and paved his way to the truck in the middle. 


Lightning flashed above and thunder struck, hinting at the impending rain which would come with a violent storm. The air was thick with the stench of gun oil, sweat, and something metallic — blood. 


Five men faced off, their bodies tense, their weapons glinting under the sickly glow of the moon. 


A broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running from his temple to his jaw, held a serrated knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. 


47 ~ Await My Return, Bastard