Romans & histoires Marked By The Mob

Finally unable to stand it anymore, the enraged Blythe slashed his knife across Mark's eyes. "Ah!" Mark's piercing wail cut through the air. Ignoring the blood streaming from his eyes, he groped frantically across the ground, desperate to flee. However, the onlooking crowd pelted him with trash. "Scumbag! So what if you're rich? People like you deserve to go to hell!" "Hah! He's not the rich one. His wife is! He's nothing but a vile and malicious murderer!" The trash smacked into the blinded Mark, preventing his escape.

After pondering for a moment, he said rather troublingly, "Mark, you were too harsh with him." "I didn't have a choice. He's a tough one. He wouldn't come with me and even attacked my men." Mark shrugged helplessly. "The fight between men was always to the death. If I hadn't stopped them, he might not even be alive." "Bullshit!" Yvonne's eyes were reddened. She said through gritted teeth, "Howard's limbs have been broken! This was clearly a mob attack! Mark, you're just afraid that Howard would tell the truth, so you beat him up this way!"

“What do you need to know?” Kamala’s voice grew thoughtful. “Was there anything unusual about the mobsters who broke in? Something you noticed about how they looked, acted, or what they said?” Sylvania closed her eyes, trying to recall every detail. “They were all dressed in black,” she said slowly, “with ski masks covering their faces. But the masks weren’t plain; they had these letters on them. MZ, printed in white. It was strange.” Kamala immediately wrote this down, her pen scratching against her notepad. “MZ…” she muttered under her breath. “That’s helpful. Did you overhear them say anything specific? Anything that stood out?”

Not completely. Word spreads faster than I can move. By the time I reach the main path, people have already started gathering. Heads turn. Work stops. A woman washing clothes freezes with her hands in the bucket. A group of warriors training nearby lowers their weapons. Their stares burn into my skin worse than the mark itself. "Whose mark is that?" someone says loud enough for me to hear. "Unmarked last night, marked this morning." "Slut." "Rogue probably." "Poor Marcus."

To our salvation. A vision hit me then her eyes in the dark, wide with recognition. The soft gasp of her breath. The press of her palm against my chest. The burn where the bond would mark us both. I stumbled back, shaking. “We meet tonight,” I murmured, chest heaving. We mark tonight, my wolf growled, savage and certain. And no force in this realm or the next will keep us from her. The wind howled around the Pack House, echoing the truth I could no longer deny.

Ever since he took those bullets and started hovering beside my bed like some lovesick husband, every single interaction with him had become increasingly uncomfortable. I immediately turned on my heel and marched straight back toward the room before he could reach me. A few seconds later, Chadwick entered, closing the heavy door behind him. “I want to go back home,” I announced, standing by my discarded jacket. He gave a firm nod. “Yes. Me too.” I looked at him up and down. “But you're severely wounded.” “I’m fine.” He stared directly into my eyes. “I recover quickly.” Of course he does. Apparently taking three bullets to the heart was just a minor inconvenience to a Mafia leader. The devil

And I would not give him that. The final vow concluded. The elders dipped their fingers into her blood and marked the sigil of allegiance at the inside of her wrist. She didn’t react to the sting. When it was done, the Council nodded. “It is witnessed.” Applause followed. Goblets raised. The tension broke into celebration once more. I watched as she stepped back into the crowd, and only then… only then, did her shoulders lower slightly. Relieved and exhausted. But she didn't yield.

They weren't fighting the Void; they were negotiating with it. "It is too much," Nocturne whispered. "You cannot simply throw the darkness away. It has to go somewhere." "I will hide it in the blood," Solari replied, his voice cold and desperate. "I will create a class of people who are born to carry the rot. They will be the filters. They will suffer so that the rest of us can be pure. We will call them 'The Markless.' We will tell them they are worthless so they never realize they are actually our saviors."

It’s just entertainment, I heard my mom’s voice. “Y’all ready for some country?” I spoke into the microphone, with a wide smile. I might as well throw in some country accent. This was going to be a night to remember for sure. The crowd eagerly nodded their heads and men leered at us. “This song is for all you cheaters out there.” I could already spot a few smiles faltering and it was exactly the courage I needed. I turned my head to my left where Olivia stood, and then to my right where Scarlett was. “Ready?”

His eyes roam the picture and I know by the looks in his eyes he's seen it too. “Shamrock,” he mutters, the weight of the realisation sinking in. A shamrock is one of the three symbols used by the Irish mob. It's a symbol of ownership by the mob and a marking only reserved for those in their shit list. Which apparently Aaron Blackwood was part of. “When Aaron went missing this was the only thing left behind.” The Irish mob were very particular about what they did. They weren't sloppy and their leader wasn't the kind of person who would allow something like this to be left behind at the crime scene.