Brooklyn Crime Novel Novels & Stories

Claire Lions has three rules: work hard, stay out of drama, and never, ever trust Andy Stephenson. For as long as she can remember, Andy has been the definition of trouble; loud, cocky, and always getting under her skin. She’s spent years avoiding him, convinced she knows exactly who he is. But when they’re thrown together on a project neither of them can escape, Claire starts to realize the boy she thought she hated might not be the villain she made him out to be. Sparks fly, tempers flare, and somewhere between insults and accidental confessions, Claire begins to wonder if the real danger isn’t working with Andy, it’s falling for him. Tempting The Bad Boy is a fiery, irresistible enemies-to-lovers romance about grudges that burn and chemistry that refuses to be ignored.

"Call me only as Sir, or I will spank you hard." He continues, moving his lips down to my neck. The heat from his touch is like an inferno that builds inside me. One night of surrender. Only names. No promises. No restraint. She gives herself to a stranger who knows exactly how to take control; commanding, intoxicating, unforgettable. Until she’s summoned to the CEO’s office. The man waiting for her is the billionaire founder of More, a global meal-kit empire. A visionary chef with a flawless public image, a ruthless business mind… and the same commanding presence that once had her kneeling to his rules. He’s her boss. And he remembers everything. As the company’s marketing manager, she should keep her distance. But his authority extends far beyond the boardroom, and every order, every glance, every quiet moment behind closed doors reminds her how easily she gave him her control. Because beneath the tailored suits and culinary fame is a man who thrives on dominance and a dirty secret that could destroy his empire if exposed. She should walk away. Instead, she’s tempted to submit again. And this time, the cost of giving in could be far more than her heart. A dark, seductive billionaire workplace romance filled with power, control, forbidden desire, and secrets that taste far too good to resist

Brooklyn Lawson never thought her biggest enemy would become the person she couldn't stop thinking about. When a nannying job forces her to move into Emerson Weston's luxury penthouse, their war follows them from school hallways to home. But living under the same roof changes everything and fighting her feelings might be the hardest battle Brooklyn has ever faced.

I opened my eyes to a dark, windowless room. Overhead, a voice crackled from the speakers. “Welcome to The Judgment Room. Each player will state the crime they committed. Do not lie. After all six of you speak, you will vote. The one with the most votes will be eliminated. “The game starts now.” In this deadly game, whose sins weighed the least?

It was the night before my best mate’s wedding—his bachelor party, we made a deal to get blind drunk, but I arrived late. When I opened the door, I was not met with cheers, but with three corpses stalled in motion. My body went limp as my mind went blank. The only thought left in my head was that I had to call the police. “I’m calling from Block 3, Unit 301 of Silkwood Gardens. My three friends are all dead!” On the other end of the line, a female police officer responded calmly, “Please stay calm and don’t touch anything. Keep the crime scene untouched. A team will arrive shortly.” This should have been a night of wild debauchery, but I was the only one left alive. I slowly ducked my head and smiled.

Fifteen years ago, my parents-in-law were cut into pieces. My wife and I spent years searching for the killer. One day, I came back from the market and found that the neighbor’s family had been murdered in the same way. At the crime scene, I saw the neighbor’s face in the mirror. I rushed out and chased him. I was just about to catch him when my wife stopped and handcuffed me with her own hands. “Drop the act. You’re the killer!”

There are no grown men in our village. When girls turn 18, they participate in a coming-of-age ceremony in the ancestral hall. Dressed in ceremonial clothes, they line up to enter, and when they come out, their faces show a mix of pain and joy. When my eldest sister turned 18, Grandma forbade her from attending. However, one night, she snuck into the hall. When she came out, she was limping, and blood was dripping between her legs.

I broke my leg in a car accident last week and had been stuck at home recovering, unable to go anywhere. Just as I was starting to go stir-crazy, a couple moved into the house next door—the one that had been empty for ages. I pressed my ear to the wall, catching every sound of them making love, and even recorded quite a bit. Still, I never expected something so sinister to happen. The man next door sounded exactly like my dead husband! I moved my phone closer to the wall and listened carefully. Suddenly, a scream exploded through the wall. “Lindy, you’ll die for this!” My scalp went numb. My husband was mute. The only time he ever spoke in his life… was the night I forced his head into a bucket of water. How did the man next door know my husband’s last words before he died?

As the news broadcast reported a random serial killing near my residential complex, I knew—I had been reborn once again. In my first life, my husband insisted on going out in the middle of a snowstorm to buy weapons for self-defense. I locked every door and window, waiting at home, anxiety clawing at my chest. I never imagined the killer could pick locks. Before I could even react, a blade plunged into me, and I died on the couch. In my second life, I didn't hesitate. I hid in a concealed storage room, holding my breath. But the door was still pulled open. A man wearing a rabbit mask stared straight at me. "Found you," he said. In my third life, I ran to the police station. I rushed inside and told the officer on duty that the killings weren't random—that the murderer was coming for me. They looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Then my husband arrived in a hurry and took me away. But the moment we reached our front door, a heavy hammer smashed into the back of my head. Through the blinding pain, I forced my eyes open, but I never saw who killed me. Now, staring at the grave expression on the news anchor's face, agony surged through every inch of my body. Rebirth isn't a reset. The damage accumulates—and sooner or later, it will torture me to death. Without hesitation, I walked into the kitchen and set a pot of oil to heat. And I waited… for the moment the lock began to turn.

My roommates booked a New Year's Eve light show table—five hundred per person—and started urging me in the group chat to transfer the money. I quietly sent a screenshot of my account balance. "You guys go ahead," I wrote. "I haven't even scraped together my tuition yet." They replied with a string of mocking "haha"s. Our dorm leader, Giselle Murdoch, even posted on her social media with the caption: [The first step to crossing class boundaries is distancing yourself from people who kill the mood.] Just after midnight, they sent me a photo from the light show and said, "Too bad you're not here." I frowned, confused, when my counselor's call cut in—her voice tight with urgency. "Did you invite your roommates to the light show? The organizers said they never even checked in! They're missing!"