Infamous Cole Macgrath Novels & Stories

Wolf believed that he was unrivaled within the same level, so he was not afraid. Besides, he had accepted 100 million dollars from Marcus, so he had to fight. Marcus immediately said, "Thanks for helping us, Mister Heath. Please beat up this arrogant guy and teach him a lesson." "Don't worry, the Shaw Province won't be dominated by a lost soul." Wolf implied that Cole was only an ungrateful outcast with no roots and that he was not worth fearing. To Cole, those words felt like daggers in his heart. He was reminded of the death of his father, and how his family fell apart and vanished. He was instantly enraged, yelling, "Step forward and die."

Mick Crane, who had just been fired from Vintage Deluxe, was standing outside the building and drafting a post, ready to blame everything on Zachary just to make himself feel better. However, he had barely finished that long-winded essay of his and was ready to post it when a familiar face noticed him and called out, "Oh, shit—if it isn't Mr. Crane! Wait, did you see Zachary Evans' post? Is everything he said true? You three were actually the ones who gave Raymond Cole that twenty million dollar present?!" Mick froze, blurting, "What post? What are you talking about?"

Now that I think about it, what the heck was I thinking? Yeah, he cried when I died… He tried to save my life… but still, how could I have done that when I could've walked away from that engagement? Revenge? Ugh! Mr. Cole should've been the last person to think of. You must've not known this yet, but Mr. Cole is the hottest cold bachelor in the city of New York. Rumour had it that he has never been in a real relationship, and the ones that his grandpa managed to set up for him, never lasted for a week.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. You’ve been jerking off to this moment since you signed with the team, haven’t you, Micah?” I don’t even bother denying it. Because, well, I have been. “Yeah, you have. And now look at you, hanging in that thing like a piñata, getting passed around by your teammates, filled to the brim with… ahh… cock. Just like you always… wanted. Fuck. That hole is… fuck… so hot and tight. I can barely… aah… fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuck.” Cole’s head falls back, his whole body shaking, and a raw, animalistic growl rips from his throat. It’s so sudden and intense, it takes me a second to realize what’s happening.

Mike Freeway wasn't the only man in Coal City with a nose for fast money. Joe Collins—just as well recognized in the back room's smoky atmosphere as J. Cole—had a gift for smelling opportunity where other men smelled gunpowder. Tall, dark, and patient, Cole lived on very little. His greasy black hair clung to his skull, his pencil-line moustache curled into a snarl, and his chin, shadowed blue from the previous night's shaving, was rarely tobacco-stained.

"Well then. I suppose we should eat before the food gets cold." I follow him into the dining room, my eyes catching on the framed newspaper clipping hanging above his mantle about his ex-rival. 'Ex-NHL Player Dean Hunter Found Dead with Family - Deemed Suicide after Career Collapse' Most people would find it creepy. I find it honest. Cole keeps his ‘trophies’ where everyone can see them. "Give it to me," I say, taking the seat closest to him. It's not really a request. He might be a legend—hundreds of awards, media darling, the whole fucking package—but underneath all that perfection, Cole's as sick as I am. That's why we work. Two monsters who don't have to pretend with each other.

“You’re related to them slimeball McKays from up around Crook County?” Carter’s gaze hardened. “Cash! What a thing to say,” Gemma chided. “You’ve been friends with Colby McKay for years.” “I am friends with him, just as long as he and his wild brothers are far away from my only daughter.” “Macie is an adult,” Carter pointed out. “True,” Gemma said. “Jesus, Gem.” He threw his hands in the air. “You know the bad reputation them McKay boys have!” “With all due respect, sir, I’m nothin’ like my brothers.”

We hadn’t properly spoken about James Cole’s situation, and he might be annoyed, but whatever—it wasn’t important. James Cole just received a punch. Not saying I wouldn't end up in jail if he reported, since, like I mentioned, he had influence. But at least it was just a punch. Derek was dead, six feet under (in this case, burnt to ashes) but it's more serious, especially because Maggie was involved. She would literally hate me.

The detail is gorgeous and intricate. What I've learned is that Cole's father's family is Scottish, and this is the Mathews family coat of arms. Under the shield is his dad's name, written in beautiful script, along with the dates of his birth and death. He inked it onto his skin when he turned eighteen in memory of his father who was killed a decade ago by a drunk driver. "I love the way you touch me," he growls. "Not half as much as I love touching you," I whisper against his warm flesh. I could do this all night long and never grow tired of it.

The headline at the bottom of the screen screamed: MAYOR COLE’S MAFIA TIES? The reporter’s voice was sharp. “...and in a shocking turn of events, Mayor Cole admitted to the existence of an organized crime group in our city, led by a man named Victor Blackwood. When pressed on the current status of this ‘Victor’, the Mayor would only say that he had been ‘taken care of’...” I stared at the screen. And then, I chuckled. It was a dry, hollow sound. Jack Cole. The great and powerful Mayor. He was so desperate, so backed into a corner, that he had thrown my name to the wolves. He had told the whole world that I existed, and he had hinted that I was dead. It was a stupid, reckless move.