David Wolfe: Books Novels & Stories

anyway.Damien Wolfe was standing in the middle of her bookshop like he'd been built for somewhere much larger and was simply tolerating this one. He was in a charcoal suit today—no tie, top button open—and he looked so aggressively out of place among the paperbacks and handwritten shelf labels and the small ceramic cat on the counter that Rain almost wanted to laugh.Almost.He was looking at her with those grey eyes, and there was nothing remotely funny about that."You," she said. Brilliant. Very articulate."Me," he agreed.She straightened fully, setting the book down on the counter between them like it was something to hide behind. Her heart was doing the same thing it had done three nights

Maybe even answers. David’s cruel words still looped in my mind “or Quinn, he is my brother, he is my business” hurt made my heart sank. Even though he had brushed it off, the words burned. My family. What could he mean by that? I stepped into the library, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. I trailed my fingers over the book spines as I walked past rows of thick leather volumes with fading gilt letters. Titles about economics. Politics. History. Entire shelves devoted to Wolfe family chronicles news clippings, biographies, even glossy books that had the Wolfe name written in gold across their covers.

Raven Wolfe sat at her desk, staring at her computer screen without seeing it. The numbers blurred. The spreadsheets blurred. The morning light streaming through the office windows blurred into a wash of gray and gold. She had been sitting here for hours, pretending to work, pretending to care about quarterly reports and client projections and the endless, mind numbing grind of corporate finance. Her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was on him. She had not slept well. She had lain awake for hours, replaying their conversation, hearing his voice in the darkness. His gray eyes. His sharp jaw. The way he had said her name like he was tasting it, like he was trying to decide if it meant something.

Someone very curious was watching me right now! Hello you, hello! I hope you can see well? I turned away from the camera and took a few steps to the side. - Open the safe! I ordered. The fat wolf narrowed his small eyes, filled with fierce hatred, and twisted his plump lips. Chechik poked him hard in the back of the head with a machine gun and the wolf did as I ordered with a groan. There were two pistols in the safe, some more money and a very important thing for any business - an account book, which included not only numbers, but also a bunch of necessary information.

But my eyes trailed up the shelves, and my lips turned downward. He had multiple copies of the same books. Like two, three, or four of every single book. They were pretty thick books and arranged neatly in rows by series. And all of them were by one author: L.F. Welsh. I glanced over at the wolf in the doorway. Why did he love this author so much? My fingers reached for book one of the series that was right in front of my face, but then I paused and looked at the wolf again. Whatever his reason for having so many copies, he couldn’t have hated this author.

I browsed the shelves, and I read the titles. Into the fire, A firsthand Account of the extraordinary Battle in Afghan War by Dakota Meyer, Bing West 500 Days, Secrets and Lies in the Terror Wars- Kurt Eichenwald The War for crown and Empire There are all sorts of books about wars here. I paused in front of a book that I deemed the most interesting. I pulled it out of the shelf and stared at it, contemplating whether to get on with it or not. I can choose a much thinner book… The 33 Strategies of War- Robert Greene