Fernando Sucre Novels & Stories

She succumbed. I sat on one bum as I looked eye to eye with her, sipping on her whiskey, giving me enough assurance I wasn't going to like whatever she’d blurt. Aunt Stephie cleared her throat, and leaned back on the sofa to adopt a comfortable sitting posture. “Jackie Fernando. This was a name associated with fashion. No one could ever imagine that all the cold-blooded murders happening all around America were committed by him. House Of Fernando was in fact founded with blood of the innocent, the blood kept it going. And,” she paused and swallowed hard.

CASSANDRA POV 1 YEAR LATER. "Why can't you send someone else?" I questioned my boss Mateo holding the phone up my ear. "Because you're the best assassin we have to kill this motherfucker, who has been causing trouble for us," Mateo said. "I don't give a fuck how you kill him, seduce him, shoot him in the dick, do what you have to get him" "Fine, so what's the guy's name, and what does he look like," I asked.

Brazil, Two Weeks Earlier - The warehouse stank of gasoline, blood, and old cigar smoke. Armed men lined the perimeter, tattooed, lean, merciless. Beneath the flickering halogen lights, Drake De Marco leaned over the polished oak table, his white shirt rolled to the elbows, sweat glistening along his throat. Across from him sat Henrique Vasquez, patriarch of the Brazilian arms syndicate, the man responsible for funneling explosives and tech across Central and South America. His suit was spotless. His smile wasn’t.

ONE THING LED TO ANOTHER (1504) "Supreme one, we have brought a gift for you, you will like it." Fernando sounded unsure of what he just said. "And what is that?" The Scourge asked with his back turned against them. "The.. c- congressman", Fernando stuttered. "And the Commissioner?" The Scourge asked. Fernando refused to keep talking and poked Zayn to talk. The Scourge turned to look at them.

Yes, she finds the majority of what he does shocking, but… not seizing her phone makes it top-notch. Not that she was curious to know about him, but, her sister Wanita wouldn't stop mentioning Alexander all the time, back then. Well, from all her ramblings and unsettling words, Ava had learned that Alexander was not exactly notorious for being a mafia lord, but known for his wealth and of course, handsomeness. Although, he held the title of a “Don,” but, only a few people out of thousands knew he deals with drugs, and these people are those who work in the mafia.

"That statue belongs to the only person who has helped us all these years. A mysterious stranger who has been providing for us, keeping us alive, comforting us while our Alpha was off doing who-knows-what!" A murmur of agreement rises, voices overlapping. "That stranger granted our wishes like a true leader should!" "He’s an angel sent by the Goddess!" "He gave us food when we were starving!" "He kept our homes warm through the brutal winters!" The old man straightens, his voice ringing with finality. “We don’t want Alpha Elijah anymore. We’ve already decided—we want the mysterious man as our Alpha. We named him… Alpha Santa!” I blink. I stare. I try to hold it in.

Mister X contacted Alina through the smart bracelet watch. He told him that they had to go to the cave that led to the intra -resort world. His mission was just beginning. She should know the truth about Fernando the son of Tupac Amaru II. Apparently Fernando lived a short life full of austerity and bitterness until victim of poor health generated by poor diet and ill -treatment, he died at the age of 31. All this information is totally wrong. The Incas were too intelligent and knew how to hide Fernando's whereabouts symbolically.

Hate oozed out of every word from his filthy mouth. He stormed out and slammed the door. I heard a bolt slide into place on the other side. I lunged for the little window I’d seen, but it was boarded up from outside. No escape. My eyes raced over the ruined room. Grass was growing up through the gaps between loose planks. In the wreckage of some broken furniture, I found a worm-eaten piece of wood. I hid it behind my back and sat on the bed, waiting... I counted seconds. Counted footsteps outside. Listened to those idiots talk, and that’s how I learned the other man was Sanchez’s cousin, from one of the smaller Brona packs.

breaks the conversation by speaking to me in Spanish. —Yes. - I screech. —A beautiful country. With this, the three of them leave and I try to breathe so as not to faint from the shock. —Since when is Che Guevara called Giuseppe? - I ask Alex. —His name was Giuseppe Garibaldi in 1846, when he died of typhoid fever at the site of the city of Salto in Uruguay, at the age of thirty-seven. —And the other two?