Gotham Ed Novels & Stories

Michaels Masterson stood frozen inside the stone walls of the Blackmoor Wolf Den, the suffocating scent of cheap ale and betrayal heavy in the air. "Screw you, Michaels," Evren Blackmoor spat, his chest heaving as he kicked a discarded iron boot across the floor. "I spent weeks feeling like trash over this, like my wolf wasn't strong enough to fix my mistakes in the Grimclaw Gaming Hall, but I should not have even cared. I should have taken more resources from Varek. How many alphas would you have had to take into your nest if the debt went up to half a million silver bars, huh?"

Enzo's hand rested on my thigh, inching higher as we hit a red light. 'You trust me, right?' 'Always,' I murmured, my breath catching as his fingers brushed the edge of my lace panties. Not long after, we pulled up to a non-descript building in the heart of downtown, but the sign hit me like a jolt. Club Eden. Bold red letters glowing against the night. Even from inside the car, I could feel the pulse of bass thumping through the air, mixed with laughter and something darker, more primal. My heart raced.

The upper floor reeked of Gothic, those black mossy outer walls with a few pinnacles straight up into the sky. Balan grimaced at the huge Swag Items - No Bargain sign in front of the store: "How the hell can the two of them bear each other?" Eden hummed before knocking on the door: "Well, true love?" And he ignored pretending to retch of his brother.

Mr Gotham spoke in a hushed whisper, just loud enough for the person on the other end to hear him. "Yes, boss," came the reply and the call ended

Phoenix The air in the black market was thick with the scent of desperation and greed, a mingling of sweat, smoke, and the sharp tang of illicit transactions. Phoenix Eadmaer Koznetsov, ex-military captain and now the formidable head of La Nera Bratva, navigated the labyrinthine alleys with the ease of a man who had long ago made his peace with the shadows.

“This is the part they hide.” Eli appeared from the steam like a ghost, his coat uncreased, his smile unreadable. “Welcome to the underbelly,” he said lightly. “You wanted cracks in the Citadel? Here they are.” Abigail’s hand twitched near her knife. “You still haven’t told us why you’re helping.” “Because sometimes,” Eli said, tilting his head, “it’s fun to see how the game shifts.” He led them through a side corridor, past rusted doors and flickering lamps, until they came to a hatch marked with faded symbols. Two quick knocks. The door opened a slit, wary eyes peering out.

“Two days ago, one of my informants told me that several crates of weapons are being smuggled into Gotham in fishing crates. He also said they will be coming from Morland today on a frate from the Cobblepot fishing company.” “Did you say Cobblepot? Like Oswald Cobblepot.” “Yeah, that's the guy.” “What, you heard that name before?” “Yeah.” -*- Bullock and Gordon arrived at the docks during the cover of night. The cold salty air hovered around them. They approached the building carefully. Gordon and Bullock avoided being seen by the two guards at the entrance. Bullock peered into the window while Gordon stood guard. “Hey Gord. Is that Ricky right there?”

"I know. I know what will happen. But I'm not lying. I swear on... on whatever's left of my soul, I'm not lying." "Hold on." More muffled voices. Then a different voice came on the line. Deeper. Male. Dangerous. "This is Braham Gothan. You have exactly one minute to convince me not to track you down and rip your throat out for calling this number." Despite everything, despite my fear and shame and the fog of alcohol, I felt a flicker of something like respect. This was a man who protected what was his. Who didn't make empty threats.