Drug Dealer Books Novels & Stories

He always lies. He used to be someone. A capo in the Diavoli. Feared, respected. Men lowered their eyes when they spoke his name. He was supposed to be next in line for underboss. Then came the drinking. The losses. The debts. When Mama got sick, everything collapsed. He gambled more, begged for loans from men who smile as they sharpen their knives. Eventually, even the mafia washed their hands of him. And now… now his debt is mine. I check my phone, thumb trembling on the cracked screen. I’m already late.

MICHAEL'S POV. I sat quietly on the couch shaking the glass of wine in my hand, my mind still clouded with guilt. I still couldn't believe Allen talked me into this evil act, it wasn't because I was righteous, I was the complete opposite. My name was Micheal but I was known among the billionaires as “The drug devil”. I was a drug dealer, one that you shouldn't mess with…one that valued money more than family. I was someone who sent shivers through people's spine, there was no single person that crossed me and never lived.

His head falls forward and tears come to his eyes. Fucking drug dealers, think they’re tough stuff but deep down they’re just men, or kids. This one only looks to be seventeen, it’s no life for a kid to be on the streets selling drugs and this is exactly why I want to own the streets. To take them off it, to clean the place up.

Thе wоmаn ѕhе is now wouldn’t hesitate tо get involved іf there were profit up fоr grаbѕ. Drugs сhаngе реорlе. Thеу’vе mаdе hеr соld. They’ve made her grееdу, and it muѕt bе a lоt of wоrk runnіng a stable оf hооkеrѕ. Eасh gіrl wіll hаvе her own little drаmа tо deal with.

Now in a drug deal there's mostly two different ways to go about it especially with a larger one. First - You front the risk of your own money, show up give them the bag full of cash and await delivery. Yay team you're paid up your life isn't on the line with the larger player. You now get to sit back in a lounge chair sipping a Margarita while waiting for your drugs to arrive. Then take said drugs and sell them for quite the tidy profit when they arrive. Option two - You take the drugs on credit. Now obviously this isn't some loan you take from the bank with a little collateral. Either you're part of an organization and your ass is on the line, or Mr. Higher up trusts you enough to give yo

' 'You are a good guy, Ads. 'No.' He shook his head. 'I'm a dealer, babe. I'm a low-as-they-come, gear-toting scumbag dealer. That's what I am. I sell shit to kids. I peddle drugs to addicts and fuckboys and anyone who hands over a bit of cash. I've let party girls get down on their knees for a few pills. I ain't no better than the rest of them and I shoulda done you right, but I didn't. But I'm gonna do right by you now, yeah, so you listen to me.' He moved his mouth close to my ear. 'Don't you do it, okay? No matter what they do to me, don't you give them what's in that book.' 'What?' I stiffened against him, my throat constricting.

“Drug dealers, not car dealers.” And my heart dropped.

***** I left the meeting room and walked to my office. Everything I needed to know was already in my head. Noah gave me the truth without pushing. A student dealer. Pressured, threatened and used to deliver something meant to hurt her. The Castellanis didn’t just move product onto my territory , they moved it through Cassie. I opened the drawer, took out the file I kept on their street network, and laid it flat on the desk. Names, drop spots, club routes, pill runners. Every connection I’d been tracking was now a target.

“It’s kind of a blur. I’ve never been sure if it’s because I blocked it out, or if it was because of the drugs and booze.” “Probably some of both. How’d it happen?” “The guy I was with at the time, Larry, a loser I’d hooked up with in art school, was a small time dealer. We’d get high on whatever product wasn’t selling. His boss would come around to collect the money, and usually we’d snorted or smoked or shot up more than Larry’s cut. So, the boss would take the difference out on trade. Since Larry didn’t have shit, I was the commodity.”

He looked like someone’s bored nephew, earbuds in, staring at his phone. To anyone else, he was just killing time. To me, he was working. I clocked the signs. Lose laces for quick movement, red thread on his hoodie sleeve, right pocket weighted, gum wrapper tucked behind the bench leg as a signal. Low-level dealer. Probably running half an ounce at a time. “Wait here,” I told Roth. “Why?” “Because you look like an unhinged cop when you talk.” I approached the dealer, handed off the cash with a nod, and walked away with a sealed bag in my pants pocket. Easy transaction. No words.