It Wasn't Me It Was The One Armed Man Novels & Stories

In one instant, one of the men- with a bald head- grabs my arm roughly and pulls me to him. I shriek and try to draw myself away but to no avail. His companion with a long scar spanning from his temple to his left cheek, laughs. He laughs and begins to fiddle with his belt. The fluids in my body seems to freeze. Bald man pushes me to the ground. "How about we say our thanks in a proper way, miss?"

The adrenaline was crashing, leaving me cold and hollow. Five minutes later, the door opened. Armano walked in. He was holding a wad of gauze to his neck. He looked like hell—pale, sweaty, swaying slightly—but he walked with that rigid military posture. He closed the door and locked it. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, like a soldier awaiting court-martial. "You called me a ghost," I said, turning to face him. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence.

43 Armando’s P.O.V I was leaning back by supporting my legs on desk, my eyes were stoned to the windows while I was mentally unavailable to the pool view. I had phone on my ear and just by then, The line connected and a man decided to speak up, “Hello… master, I was waiting for your call,” stated the person in British accent across the line with a hinge of taunt, it was him who I foolishly trusted for the first time under my leadership. Somehow, the realization made my lips curve faintly,

There were just as many people inside as there were outside and from my time with Massimo, I recognized them to be underground crime lords along with their wives or new playthings hanging by their sides. We made our way to the front of the crowd where the bereaved family stood and my eyes still roamed everywhere else while Massimo greeted a tall man but I must have been deeply engrossed, searching the crowd when I felt a sharp pain in my arm. "Ouch!" I exclaimed and turned sharply to Massimo and then to the point in my arm where he had pinched me. His face had a smile meant to be sweet but was menacing to me. "What?" I asked, trying to rein in my voice from sounding sharp.

I didn't think that man had an ounce of fat on him. "Little bird, you fuck me now," someone said. "How many of you are there?" I asked, his words sending steel down my spine. "Two. But I go first." He grabbed at my clothes. Instinct and training took over. I grabbed his hand, wrenched it back. His squeal of pain was a bright spark of joy in my brain. Using his arm as a fulcrum, I twisted around the outside of his body, and slammed my opposite forearm where I thought his elbow joint should be.

"Yeah, I told him I suddenly got a call from my close friend. And that I needed to take something from her. Herbert and his friend are also here, so he didn't suspect anything." Amy still seemed uneasy. "Follow the crowd out there. Don't be nervous. Just lower your head. It'll be all fine once you get in the car. Nobody would follow you anymore by then." "Okay, thank you." Amy followed Vince out of the clubhouse with gratitude. Meanwhile, Yuna wore Amy's clothes and walked outside. Now, Mina's voice rang in her Bluetooth earphones. "Ms. Feron, there isn't just one person taking pictures. There's another man on your nine o'clock."

I groaned, but I was smiling. He clutched his chest, pure drama. "Terrible? I'm a comedy god—I know, everyone knows, you should know too,but don't worry, you'll see." He worked furiously on his phone, and my phone buzzed—Snapchat, JoséTheMan had followed me. A second later, a silly selfie flashed: Sup, nerd? on it. I rolled my eyes, adding him back, snapping a photo of me rolling my eyes with Lame scribbled across it, and the one of himself that I took while he was closing around. He viewed the first instantly, but not the second.

The damp air wafting out of the room hit me with a rotten smell. “Please, please.” The tears came in earnest now, my fingers shaking with fright. I didn’t want to enter. The darkness looked like a gaping jaw of uncertainty. I felt large hands against my back, about to push me inside, when the voice came. “Ey, malditos perros!” (Yo, dogs!) I felt the three men flinch behind me. I looked to the side to see a tall, lean man approaching. He wore an armless jacket, a large cigar pinched between his fingers. The exposed top half of his chest sported an ugly, botched tattoo of the word ‘Primo.’ Not comforting in the slightest.

Watson stared at where his arm had once been, the overwhelming pain making him let out a blood-curdling howl. "Argh… you motherf*cker! Who the f*ck are you?" Watson clutched the bloody wound at his shoulder, staring at Wilbur as if he was Satan himself. Aside from him, even Watson's men, as well as Enoff and Leia had not expected that. This ordinary-looking young man had just blown one of Watson's arms off without lifting a finger.

one guy asked, grabbing me by the arm. "Get your hands off me if you need your complete set of fingers" Another guy scoffed in a distance "You are all talk" I snapped one finger off and threw it at the crowd "Think before you speak" The guy whose finger I just snapped stared like a deer caught in headlights before letting out a scream "My goddamned finger!!" I had to get our of here. Now. Someone pulled me to the ground and before I could attack he yelled "It is me, Lucas".