Burari Diary Novels & Stories

I gave a half smile as I kept aside three CD plates having images and soundtracks of Brian. When I fondled further into the cupboard I could find a sizable diary, which had Brian’s name scribbled on it. Upon seeing the diary, I was puzzled and took it out “Welcome To My… Little Secret…” I read the first note on the dairy, and raised a brow when I flipped through pages to realize the uncountable secret he had written down. I am Scribbling down these little secrets in explicit sentences;

I kept documents that detailed our pack's business dealings, records of our hunting grounds, and, most importantly, evidence that hinted at the dangerous undercurrents in our community—the illegal substances flooding our territory and the shadowy organizations trafficking them. I locked the door and drew the curtains, plunging the room into a cocoon of dark secrecy. The faint glow from my desk lamp illuminated the strange, slightly burnt diary I had found among the debris of the previous owner's possessions in that secret chamber. Its leather cover was charred at the edges, and the pages were brittle and yellowed. I had never seen writing like it before; the characters twisted and curled in

Slowly opening it, he revealed a pink diary adorned with a bunny hugging a carrot, its pages secured by a plastic lock requiring a password. Although the lock could have been easily broken, Landon hesitated, pondering for a moment before impulsively entering his birthday. The lock clicked open.

_Leah's POV_ I held my breath as I carefully wedged the diary behind the bathroom cabinet. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to stay calm, to think clearly. Tariq couldn’t know I had discovered his secrets, not yet. I took one last look at the worn leather cover. The strange symbol on it seemed to mock me with its dark promises before I shoved it deeper into the hidden crevice. When I was satisfied that it was well-hidden, I straightened up and took a deep and steadying breath.

I said,my voice firm. She nods, her hands on her thighs for balance. I watch her face tighten with effort. A second passes, Then I hear the first trickle. Warm golden piss hits my chest, Splashing against my skin. It's hot, like liquid heat spreading out. The stream is stronger, hitting me right in the center of my chest. running down in rivulets over my nipples and stomach. The smell hits me—sharp, musky, all her. I love it. My chest gets soaked fast.

I replied. The chaos could still continue for at least two days, and Mr. A succeeded in getting Marx and his boys off our backs for a while, almost immediately. A case of rape was leveled against Bammy Sarumky and he was arrested. Mr. Sarumky himself was declared wanted for racketeering, corruption, and drugs trafficking. He quickly disappeared before the law could catch up with him, of course.

‘I want to see the diary,’ he says sternly. ‘Fine,’ I say. I get the diary for him and hand it over. His eyes light up. He runs his fingers through the burnt edges of the diary and flips through the pages. He feels the crumbling edges of the pages and looks at me. ‘This is freaking awesome,’ he says. I knew he’d say that. This sort of stuff is very Shreyish. He is the one with the passion and the zeal to do things that one would normally stay away from. He is the crazy one.

But nothing explicitly mentioned Rena or Vittoria. Just as he was about to give up, he found a small, leather-bound diary tucked away in the corner of the safe. He opened it with trembling hands, his heart pounding in his chest. The diary was written in Russian, the elegant script of a woman's hand. He recognized the handwriting from the back of the photograph. He began to read, his eyes devouring the words on the page. The diary entries spanned several years, chronicling the life of a woman named Vittoria Rena, her dreams, her hopes, and her growing involvement in the world of organized crime.

She crawled to the very back, wedging herself between a heavy wooden crate and the steel wall of the trailer. A few minutes later, the engine roared to life. The entire world began to vibrate, a deep, rhythmic thrum that shook Sari to her bones. "I’m a ghost," she whispered into the darkness as the truck began to move. "Sari is dead. The woman Budi owned is gone." She pulled her tattered diary from her jacket and opened the last page. She didn't have a pen anymore, so she bit her finger until the skin broke, using a drop of her own blood to mark a small, jagged 'X' at the bottom of the page.

My gloved hands rested uselessly on the open manuscript. “You’ve worked late every Thursday for the past two months,” he said quietly. “Always alone. Always in this room. I’ve watched you from the upper gallery more than once. The way you handle the books. The way you go completely still when you think no one is looking. The way your breathing changes when you turn certain pages.” My mouth went dry. I stared at the botanical illustration in front of me—delicate ink lines of a flower that suddenly felt obscene. “I don’t know what you mean.”