Mafioso Fanart Forsaken นิยาย & เรื่องราว

My hand subconsciously went to my stomach. Does Antonio want me to start as a copyist? Because almost everyone in Spain knows Francisco Goya as a legendary Spanish romantic painter and paint maker. Recreating portraits from the 80s actually means something. I got up from the couch and headed to the art room. He said to start with Saturn devouring his son, that mythological portrait of a man literally eating his child. It looks creepy but I knew I was going to try it out. I opened the door, took a moment to stare at the paintings I met in the art room, before it became mine—Picasso’s fractured faces, Goya’s black horrors, Caravaggio’s dramatic shadows.

“I want Lorenzo alive. And I want Mateo’s head on a plate.” One of the guards limped forward, clutching his bleeding arm. “Boss, they took the files...” “I don’t care!” Franco roared. His eyes burned with fury. “They can’t hide forever. Not from me. I’ll rip everything they love apart until they crawl back begging for mercy.” His words dripped with venom, echoing through the shadows. And somewhere, Lorenzo knew, this was only the beginning. The car screeched to a halt outside a safehouse on the edge of the city. Mateo killed the engine, his chest rising and falling fast.

Samael growled, “we will mark each other, as we are meant to be.” Lucan’s voice echoed in Samael’s mind, urging him forward. "Claim him now. He belongs to us." Morgan’s growl was deep, feral. "Mark him as ours." Samael bared his teeth, and without hesitation, he sank them into Allistair’s left chest, marking him for eternity. Allistair gasped, feeling the powerful rush of Samael’s essence flood into him. On Allistair’s chest, Samael’s mark appeared, a complex, glowing symbol that represented Lucan, Morgan, and Lucifer. The mark was that of a beast’s claw intertwined with the archangel's wings, glowing with an ethereal light that radiated power. Allistair’s form trembled as he, too, marked Sa

There he was. Ronan. Alpha of the Ashfang pack. Towering. Wet. Dripping. A towel slung low on his hips like it belonged there, casually disrespecting every ounce of self-control I had left. His abs were carved from stone. His waist? Unfair. A tattoo curled around his arm and crept slightly over his chest, like it had a story it was dying to whisper. I didn’t even want to think about how good he looked soaked and glistening like a forbidden rain god. “I—I—I saw nothing!” I yelped, clamping my eyes shut like that could erase what had just burned itself into my memory.

Damon's POV) My jaw tightened as I stood in my study, staring at the untouched bourbon on my desk, hoping it would erase the memories. Outside, the moon hung low, casting a pale light over the courtyard, where Isabel had once danced barefoot beneath the stars before I pushed her into the shadows. I hated myself for it, but I despise the idea of her belonging to someone else. The image of her tangled in Blake's arms lingered in my mind, refusing to fade. Her skin was bare, her cheeks flushed, and her lips parted in soft surrender as she lay against him, leaving a haunting image. None of it fit. None of it made sense. She rarely spoke to him and never gave him a smile, let alone a glance worth

" Candela asked. "I am working on his treatment immediately, but he needs a blood transfusion as well. I mean immediately," Alfredo said. "Well, get on with it then. Mario is here. He can donate blood to his father, right nephew?" Dante asked, making us look at Mario. Mario ran his fingers through his hair, looking frustrated. "Yes, but there is a problem," Mario said. I furrowed my brows. "My new tattoos are barely a week. It is not safe for him," Mario said.

Not just from wolves. From warriors. Disciplined. Measured. Not the wild scrapes of a starving rogue. These were meant to break through defenses. Quickly. Cleanly. “Gamma,” Micah calls. “You’re going to want to see this.” I follow his voice toward the barn. What’s left of it. On the far side of the scorched wall, scrawled in blood, is a symbol. An old one. A crest with three vertical slashes through a crescent moon.

Without another word, he bolted toward the sound of the scream, disappearing into the burning ruins. I inhaled deeply, forcing my focus back to the battle. My claws had already formed, the familiar sting of power settling into my limbs. Every muscle in my body was primed for the fight. Then I saw them. A group of Forsaken warriors stalked through the smoke, their blackened armor blending with the shadows, their inhuman eyes glowing with eerie malice. One of them spotted me and grinned, baring jagged fangs. He was massive, taller than any werewolf I had ever seen, his presence radiating power.

And their faces—gods, their faces look like graves. “Who are you?” I rasp. My voice is torn raw, almost gone. The one in front steps forward. A woman with white hair braided down her spine, a scar slashed deep across her throat like someone tried to silence her and failed. She smiles like the end of the world. “We,” she says, voice rough as gravel and cold as riverstone, “are the Forsworn.”

“Not you. Your corpse.” She drew out a silver blade, its surface glittering unnaturally. “This is laced with the Elixir of Varran and wolfsbane.” Her eyes gleamed. “Let’s see how you, and that special wolf of yours survive this.” “She can’t,” Valentina added calmly. “They were infused together with dark magic.” Freya brandished the blade inches from my face, clearly savoring the moment, intent on terrorizing me. Then, a familiar voice cut through the air like a lifeline.