Black Devils Cigarettes Novels & Stories

I feel you; I see you, Take a good view, And get lost through, But do not subdue, Because I got you. I give you one more chance, Password is a word on the street. Turn me over, And oh, you’ll get what you truly desire. The bartender watches me as he wipes the glasses, a curious look dances by his eyebrows as he registers the look on my face. I am left appalled. How does he know what I desire? And who the bloody hell is he? I look down at the card and wipe off the dust at the back. The name is not Dustin, but Devlin this time, and a new desire below the name.

And then, just like that, he left. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed felt deafening. I stood there for a long moment before I turned slowly to the bottle of whiskey on the table in front of me. I poured myself a full glass and downed it in one go. My eyes blurred as the burn of the drink went down my throat and settled in my belly. My phone pinged then. I grabbed it seeing I had a message from an unknown number. It was a video attachment…no doubt a scam.

Information kept them alive. It was their bread and butter and put them in a position of higher power despite being on the bottom of the ladder when it came to bank balance. "I won't lie to you, I was surprised as hell when I heard you've gotten involved in the flesh trade." He shook his head. "You've always been vocal about not wanting to get involved in that." "Where did you hear this?" I asked him. "The word is on the street, Santiago. They say the Black Smoke syndicate has one of the biggest, most discreet trafficking rings in the United States." Russell informed me.

Briley opened her mouth to say something – and truly, she didn’t know what that might be – when Wolf came into the bar. He shot a ferocious glare around and jerked his head towards the conference room. Without a word, without even looking at each other, every member of The Road Devils promptly left their posts, places, and tables and followed Wolf down the hallway. Rebel reached for the kitchen phone to call the guys over at The Garage and Blue Dragon Ink to drop everything and come to the bar.

Subject line: “You Asked for the Devil” The file was massive. Raphael stood behind me, watching as I clicked open layer after layer. Lucian Damian Devlin. Born in Austria. Raised in Switzerland. Fluent in five languages. Educated in private institutions under aliases. Trained in weapons, finance, manipulation. Current occupation: CEO of Devlin Global Holdings. Unofficially: Heir and now head of the Devlin Cartel — a billion-dollar empire of drugs, trafficking, and global political influence. I scrolled, the blood draining from my face.

I smiled, and it was a cold, terrifying sight that silenced the room. “The incentive is that I will spare his life and ensure the Volkov organization becomes his new, primary lender. His life for Salvatore’s location. No more. No less.” Kahlil does not know me. He thinks I am a man who negotiates profit. He is wrong. I am a man who only negotiates vengeance. He will not risk his empire for a dead man like Damon Salvatore. The Italian beast, Rocco, now controls the sea. The Volkov financial web controls the shore. And I, the Devil of Moscow, control the fate of the man who dared to touch my home.

The salty tang of the sea clung to the air, laced with the sharp sting of gasoline. He paused, pulling a matchbook from his pocket, his teeth holding his cigarette steady as he struck a flame. The flare painted his scarred face in orange light before he tossed it down. Gasoline trails hissed alive, orange tongues racing across the ground. Within seconds, the first warehouse caught. Then another. Then another.

Zachariah and Michael sat in a white van, watching all the doors: Blue Dragon Ink, Satan’s Bar, The Garage. There was a constant stream of huge guys going in and out, all wearing black leather cuts. The logo on their backs read ‘The Road Devils’, and so it was pretty obvious that the Guardians were in the right place.

He watches me from across the room, his cigarette burning, his eyes unreadable, and waiting to see what I will do. On the fifth night, I decide. There is a man I have heard about through the network. His name is Devon, he runs a small operation on the edge of the city, buying stolen goods and reselling them to shops that do not ask questions. He is not powerful, not connected to Jerald or any of the major players. He is small time, which means he is accessible. I find him in a bar on the south side, a dark place with sticky floors and a jukebox that plays the same songs on repeat, and he sits alone at a table near the back, nursing a drink and watching the door.