Brooklyn Crime Novel Novels & Stories

New York was a wound that never healed. It smelled of exhaust, wet concrete, and fried food that had been sitting too long. A city that chewed through people, then spit out their bones on the sidewalks. Perfect cover for me. I was hunting a man who thought he was untouchable—a kingpin who traded women like currency, who wore his cruelty like a designer suit. I’d been watching him for weeks. I had his routine memorized down to the minute. At 11:15 he stepped outside to smoke. At 11:28 his runner dropped an envelope. At 11:33 he checked his phone to make sure the alley camera still worked.

Joe’s voice taunted from behind me, but I didn’t turn back. The night was cold and dark, the moon casting an ethereal glow on my skin. I hailed another taxi and headed home,to the place where I was still valued. After what felt like an eternity, I arrived at the Brooks mansion. My gaze shifted to the hit man ontop of the roof, his gun aimed at me, waiting for orders. Slowly, he lowered his gun and i smirked. Perhaps they missed me and don't want me killed. If I guessed correctly, my mother was behind the orders as my dad had travelled out of the country, Damian? He hated me and would stop at nothing to detach my head from my body.

His Brooklyn! “Don’t move, everyone. Stay still or the bomb will detonate. Samuel, can you defuse the bomb?” officer Thompson asked one of his men. “Yes, sir,” said the policeman as he went forward to diffuse it while the others cut open the ropes to free Brooklyn. Brooklyn sobbed with panic, not having seen Nikolas yet. “I don’t want to die,” she sobbed, still in a daze. “Please don’t take me away again,” she begged, sobbing bitterly. It seemed as if she was in a daze, not having noticed that they weren’t the criminals but policemen.

We always had to be available whenever it was required of us. “Sorry, we lost track of time,” Zayn apologized quickly, running his hands through his hair stressfully. Boss shrugged his shoulders, not wanting to waste any more time. “It better not happen again,” he muttered briefly, before cutting to the chase. “Anyway, there's been some mass murders in Manhattan lately. I'll need you two to investigate these, and do what you can to find out who was behind them.” “Fuck,” Zayn heaved. “Is there a pattern between them?”

Then she kissed her forehead, gathered her things, and walked out of the hospital into the gray November afternoon. * * * The city felt different on the subway back to Brooklyn. Or maybe Elena felt different, hyper-aware, every stranger's glance landing like a touch, every shadow seeming to hold something waiting. She got home, showered for twenty minutes, standing under water that never got fully hot, scrubbing diner grease from under her fingernails, from the creases of her elbows, from her skin until it felt raw and new and someone else's. She was pulling on her uniform when the knock came.

My feet were slow to walk towards the door and push the wood close the rest of the way. But not before I took a quick peek at the hallway outside which also turned out to be empty. I stepped back inside with a sigh of relief and looked around the apartment. Everything appeared to be in place. My laptop was still sitting on the table where I had left it last night. Even my wallet which was carelessly lying on the kitchen counter was there. Nothing was gone. They weren't robbers. But if they weren't, what were they? Why were they here? What had they come for?

Brooklyn glowered, his gaze turning vicious, as he snarled, “Who the f*ck are you? How dare you barge in here!?” Brooklyn’s underlings shut the door right away to block his way out. Kayson arched his brow. “Move your men if you don’t want to end up in the hospital.” “Acting so brazen with me? Do you think you’re Bob Faber?” Brooklyn asked darkly. He then glared at Livia. “I thought you were some innocent maiden, and you said you don’t have any plans to date? “B*tch, I thought you had better respect for yourself, but you’re just another wh*re!”

The men agree with him, but my ears perk up at the mention of the name I haven’t heard in years. “Excuse me, what did you say? Who got arrested?” I rapid-fire, earning confused looks from the group. Our manager answers nonetheless. “Some dude called Fontana, he’s a big crime lord or as the news says,” he explains, and the whole group listens intently. “He got arrested a month ago, I think and the streets have been more dangerous since.” “Huh, no wonder almost every man has a gun now. It seems like it's easier to acquire a gun nowadays than healthcare.”

during our first meeting, in July 1988, I came to understand that she also uses such cruel and self-inflicted criticism in a more universal way, with the sense that she has lived a life outside the tyranny of reputation. In the best and worst senses of the term, Arlyne Brickman is a criminal. The celebrated Mrs. Brickman had come to my attention earlier that summer, when I first began to hear his- The Mob Girl and her adventures in the New York underworld. It wasn't just that she was a "mob princess," the daughter of a well-connected Lower East Side Jewish extortionist. Nor was she only "married to the mob" because of her carnal associations with a handful of gangsters. Arlyne had become a

I already knew Thorne was powerful but hearing it put so bluntly brought the reality of the situation crashing down on me. "So, what do we do? Sit back and let him get away with whatever it is he's involved in? "Logan, that man must be punished for that crime." "Are you really sure you are going to handle this case, Emma?" he asked worriedly. "After all the cases I solved, you are asking me that? Don't you trust me?" I asked him. "I trust you but what will be your first move?" he replied. "We collect evidence. We must tie everything that has happened together: Thorne, Franco's murder, and the Crimson Brotherhood. If we can find just one thing—anything—connecting him to these acts, we can act