Framed In The Dead Of Night Novels & Stories

--- A single gunshot shattered the night’s fragile elegance. For a breathless moment, silence stretched, the kind that came just before devastation struck. Then, chaos erupted. Screams tore through the ballroom, guests scrambling for cover as masked men stormed the lavish space, their weapons raised with deadly intent. Glass shattered, chandeliers swayed, and the scent of gunpowder burned the air.

Midnight came and went in silence. They stood together in the great hall as the long clock struck the hour, Luca and Isabella, Gentile and Paulo, Leone and Gerald with a blanket around his shoulders, and Riccardo in a dry coat by the kitchen door under Tomas's watchful eye. Twelve slow bells rang through the old house. Nobody breathed. The seventh night had ended, and the dead man's promise with it. Nothing happened. The telephones stayed dark. No lily lay on the steps. Rain tapped on the windows, and the last note of the clock died away into the carpet, and still they stood there, waiting, like people who have braced for a blow that never lands.

He said, and I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.” I said, finally breathing properly. “There's a full moon in two days.” Franklin said, and I nodded . “Yeah, why?” I asked, and he looked gently at me. “I always lose control on such nights.” Franklin said. “It's like I sleep very deeply, and my body just acts on its own.” I nodded gently, trying not to imagine the insanely horrible things that he'd do on such nights. “Does that explain the bodies in the other room there?” I asked calmly, and he nodded.

Dusk seemed to bring no hope to those still struggling to stay alive, despite the glimmer of hope for victory over this invisible enemy. After all the guards were killed, the atmosphere in the Mateus residence changed completely in an instant. Thirty people dressed in black, like eerie night shadows, burst in with unimaginable strength and determination. Just imagine that they ran with deafening shouts and gunshots, splitting the silence of that peaceful night. The remaining guard was already getting into position to do battle. No matter if he lived or died, he had to exert all his strength to protect their master. They were aware of their limited chances of survival.

“Tomorrow Coach walks in at nine sharp. He gets first, last, and everything in between. And he’s been watching the tapes.” He bites my swollen clit once, making me jerk and whimper in the straps. “Sleep well, property. You’re gonna need every ounce of strength for what’s coming.” They lower me gently this time, unlock the cuffs. I collapse into their arms, trembling, painted white, barely able to stand. Seven nights down. One to go. And tomorrow the man who’s been filming every second finally claims his prize. I can’t fucking wait.

Murphy's POV The night air was cold, but I barely felt it under the rush in my blood. My bike rumbled as I pulled it to the side of the dark road. One by one, my men rolled up behind me, and their engines growled low like beasts waiting to be set loose. The moon gave just enough light to show their masks. No one wore their Dead Revenants cuts tonight. Every single one had the Hellfangs patch on their back. Myles’s colors. That was the whole point. When the blood was spilled, the blame would fall on him.

Rain pelted down in sheets, blinding me as it streamed over my face. Damn it. Was I going to freeze to death out here before Angelo arrived? I lay sprawled in the mud, gasping for air. I fumbled in my pocket until my fingers closed around the phone. The screen lit up, showing it was midnight. Headlights cut through the curtain of rain. A black armored car stopped in front of me. The door opened, and a pair of polished leather shoes stepped into the waterlogged earth. A tall figure slowly stepped toward me beneath the shelter of a black umbrella. I could only make out his jawline and a pair of tightly pressed lips.

“Deal.” The TV flickered on—some late-night infomercial no one was watching. Upstairs, the house slept. Down here, two best friends lay tangled in blankets and each other—bodies still humming, hearts racing, already counting the hours until the next time they could steal the dark.

"Don't forget — I won tonight's game." Before I could react, I was pressed back into the seat. One hand gripped my chin, forcing my face up. His eyes were black, his breathing harsh. "One night." "You're good at this, aren't you?" And just like that, my mind split open. Seven years ago. He'd pinned me to the bed exactly like this. The lights were low. He pressed his lips to my ear and whispered "I love you" over and over, so gently it felt like a prayer.

"Seriously, you can't even survive in this city without me. The party starts at eight tonight. Hotel Kebinsky." He turned as if the conversation were already over and could not be bothered to spare me another second. "You will attend Rachel's celebration. Go on the stage, apologize, and confess that you were delusional when you made a scene at the art exhibit. Do that, and my assistant will go through your father's case. This is your last chance." The city witnessed a downpour seven days ago. It was the day I got my hands on a crucial testimonial. That testimonial was proof my father was framed.