Futuristic Violence And Fancy Suits Novels & Stories

I snarled at the window, my finger tapping the limousine door at a steady beat to calm my fury, “I’m gonna burn them all to the ground.” “Of course!” The young mutt behind the wheel chirped. “I’ll get new ones planted as soon as you take over the pack. Cypress? Oh, larch! Luxurious but mysterious, exactly the vibes of your new look. The suit—.” “No,” I breathed, my eyes closed, my hand now gripping in tight fists of apprehension. “Oh….” And the idiot lit up again. “I got it! Palm trees—rich sophistication. Just like the colour of your suit—.”

His eyes burned with fury. "You bitch!" His arm rose into the air, ready to strike. I closed my eyes. My body curled in a reflex of fear. I waited for the pain. I waited for the violence. But it never came. Something changed in the air—a powerful, predatory, lethal presence. I swallowed hard, slowly opening my eyes. And then I saw him. Tall. Broad shoulders. An imposing stance. His sculpted muscles were hidden beneath a dark suit, but it was his presence that suffocated me more than the tight collar around my neck.

A gaze the color of the skies right before a thunderstorm. The angular jawline spoke of determination and stubbornness. The slight stubble on his face made him appear harsh and untouchable. Not that he needed it, because I’d be terrified if I found myself alone in a dark alley with him. The dark three-piece-suit hugged his broad, towering frame. Lethal. This man was lethal. I might have turned eighteen only today, but I’d stake my life on it. This man could end a human life without losing sleep.

, Fear was better than loyalty in this world. The table was laid out like a candy shop for psychopaths. Scissors, Hammers. Clamps, Ropes, Machetes, Guns. Lighters. And my favorite—pliers. I took off my shirt slowly, watching the way their eyes widened. My body wasn't just muscle—it was war. Scars of battles past, inked in blood and fire. "Gentlemen," I said, cracking my knuckles. "You all forgot who put you in those suits you wear so proudly. You thought you could take my money and run?"

Amara’s POV The "Lucky Scissor" was no longer a bar; it was a courtroom where the judge had arrived with a sledgehammer. The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on, vibrating with the raw, suppressed violence radiating from Adrian. He didn’t look like the man who graced the covers of Forbes. He looked like a man who had walked through a hurricane to find the person who had set it in motion. His charcoal overcoat was damp from the city mist, and his eyes—usually so cold and controlled—were burning with a dark, manic clarity.

Roman moved through the chaos like a force of nature, his movements a deadly dance of precise violence. His suit was off and all he had on was his dress-shirt and his tie that still managed to hang on. His eyes were hollow, devoid of emotion as he walked straight into the gun fire like a madman who didn't care for his life. Yet the confidence and danger he exuded had me staring wide-eyed.

Our gazes connecting rings through my limbs like the starting bell of a boxing match. “Did you hit your fucking head after I got shot?” Dante demands. The flicker of emotion fades. I square my shoulders. He doesn’t get to talk to me like that anymore. “What, you don’t like the suit?” I gesture to one of the many suits I’ve purchased with his cards in the last two weeks. This one is navy blue with a thin gray pinstripe. I burned the suit I wore to meet Thano, and I haven’t bought anything black since.

The stillness in Anton’s London penthouse was dense, a physical entity pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows that usually offered a glittering, dominion-over-all view of the city. Tonight, the glass was an inky black mirror, reflecting a scene of quiet, focused desperation. In the center of the living area, a low table had been cleared of its usual art books and architectural models. Now, it held a spread of cold, purposeful objects. Sabatine stood before it, a study that contained violence. The soft, charcoal-gray sweater he’d worn earlier was gone, replaced by a form-fitting, black tactical undershirt. Over it, he methodically secured a lightweight, polymer-mesh vest, not the bulky

Hmm. Ahead, Yosef nudges Tristan toward the shots of alcohol lined up on the floor. Their harmony is so unique. Everyone is clad in red boxer briefs; you can’t differentiate between the Pakhan and a mere soldier. Except me, who’s dressed in a leather harness, like I’m a trophy for their violence. Ugh! “Pakhan! Pakhan! Pakhan!” My nostrils flare as Tritan downs the entire shot in seconds. Yosef cups Tristan’s head, and they bump their head together and bark like dogs, more like Mad-Vikings.

"The 'Design' forces us to believe that true power is a vertical line—that you must occupy the highest point of the pyramid to be truly free. But a bakery... a bakery is entirely horizontal. It’s exclusively about the breathing person standing directly in front of you. It’s about the honest bread you hand them. It’s the only space left in this godforsaken city where the mathematics are completely honest." I looked back up at him, my gaze boring into his. "Do you miss it? The tailored Italian suits? The unquestioned loyalty of the Battalion? Being the single man that every boss from Brooklyn to Newark was absolutely terrified to touch?" Luciano reached out, his thumb slowly tracing the sharp