Novel-novel oleh Ella D’Ravyn

Zedekiah GreenThe weak light from the bulb swung from the ceiling like a broken pendulum, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed alive on the damp walls of the basement. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of mold and rust and the subtle scent of fear I had learned to recognize so well.And at the center of it all, tied to an old pipe, was Liora Voss.Even after days locked up, dirty, her school uniform torn, and her body marked by exhaustion, she still kept her chin high. Her gray-green eyes shone with a determination that bordered on stubbornness. It wasn’t the look of someone about to beg. It was the look of someone still fighting.And that fascinated me like few things could.After Noah’s visit, we had expected the fear to finally break her. We thought she would confess to being a Bratva spy or collapse into tears and pleas. Instead, her resistance only seemed to grow stronger, like steel being tempered in fire. I loved it. The more she resisted, the more I wanted to fin

Noah GreenHeros gathered us in the office and told us everything. Luther’s growing obsession with Liora. How he saw in her a chance for redemption, a living shadow of Alicia. After many questions, we finally understood the real reason behind the Brotherhood Law—the rule our eldest brother created after the disaster with Alicia. He always said that any feeling beyond the carnal was weakness. Vulnerability. And now, with Liora here, all of us were tangled in this dangerous web.The code was clear: if one of us wanted her, we all wanted her. No exceptions. No jealousy that could destroy the family from within.I should have felt bothered. I should have seen it as just another problem to manage. But, against all reason, her image wouldn’t leave my head. That ethereal beauty, the air of innocence mixed with that spark of rebellion in her eyes… It was hard not to notice. Hard not to feel curious. And, I admit, desire.Lohan and Zedekiah seemed to have accepted the situation, each in his ow

Liora VossI woke to the constant sound of dripping water. Ploc. Ploc. Ploc. A slow, relentless rhythm echoing off the damp concrete walls, marking time like a macabre clock. The heavy smell of mold and wet earth filled my nostrils, mixed with something metallic I preferred not to identify. The darkness was almost complete, broken only by a weak, yellowish bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting long, distorted shadows.I tried to move, but my hands were tied above my head, bound with rough ropes to a rusty pipe. The skin on my wrists burned with every breath. My shoulders throbbed. The cold, damp floor stuck to the soles of my bare feet. I was dirty, exhausted, and completely powerless.A pit of despair.I didn’t know how many hours—or days—had passed since the alley. The last clear image in my mind was the Capo staring at me as the sweet-smelling cloth was pressed over my face. After that… nothing.I pulled on the restraints again, but the rope only bit deeper into my skin. A low gr

Heros GreenNew York, Todt Hill — 3 days laterThe air inside the office was dense, almost palpable. The scent of aged whiskey mingled with the aged leather of the furniture and the residual smoke of Cuban cigars that still lingered in the environment. I found myself seated behind the imposing dark mahogany desk, the same place my father had occupied for decades with an iron fist. Now it was mine. Capo di tutti capi of the 'Ndrangheta on the American East Coast. I'm thirty-four years old, and the weight of the entire empire is on my shoulders.For the first time in a long time, I was seriously questioning one of my decisions.We discovered her name when we searched her backpack, cellphone, and documents with clinical care: Liora Elena Voss. Eighteen years old, freshly turned. An ordinary Russian girl who made the fatal mistake of turning down the wrong alley at the wrong time. And, try as I might, I couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that bringing her into our home had been a gr

Liora VossMoscow, Ulitsa Arbat — Arbat StreetI waited outside the school gates for more than two hours. My phone had gone warm in my hand from calling Mackenzie—my mother—over and over again.Twenty-three times.Every call went to voicemail.Dusk bled across the city in shades of tarnished gold, turning the streets of Moscow into something dim and bruised. The wind cut straight through my thin jacket, sending dead leaves skittering around my battered sneakers. My feet throbbed. Hunger clawed at my stomach. And the anger—sharp, familiar, exhausting—was the only thing keeping me upright.Again.At some point, waiting started to feel worse than walking.So I left.Home was far, but I knew a shortcut: a narrow alley behind a decaying bar I usually avoided without thinking twice. That evening, frustration made the choice for me.It was the worst mistake of my life.The moment I turned the corner, everything changed.Seven men.Five with guns.The alley smelled like cheap smoke, stale pis