Novel & Cerita Marvin Cortes

Caitlin grabbed a chair and sat down adjacent to me, her bare thighs squashing down onto the seat as she folded her ankles and leaned back. She gestured with her hand to let me continue, almost impatiently and I cocked an eyebrow at her with a small smile. This woman… "If," I emphasised. "You're willing. Your target would be Lucas Trevino, software engineer and owner of Godfather nightclub." I paused for her reaction and she simply just nodded her head waiting for me to continue.

With my eyes closed, I took in a long drag, allowing my tension to get wrapped up in the smoke before slowly letting the smoke curl its way out of my mouth. My name is Carlito Santo-Maria. I love to address myself as the god here in Draymoor. No one dared question my authority, not even the cops. I can unapologetically say, I am the law. In this game, you know your territory and try not to trespass, but in my case, I think I have stepped on a bigger toe. Striking a deal with Marcos Gonzalez was like striking a deal with the devil. There was no room for failure. Marcos was in charge of the western states, of which Draymoor was part. He was the big fish. A man whose name could sink ports and c

she said and paused as she couldn’t mention the PDA-thingy, “I feel like I’m converting you to my side, ma.” “Oh, it’s that what you think?” her mother said and smiled. “Yes,” Misha smiled widely. “I didn’t know Mr. Cortez had a twin brother,” her mother stated. “Maybe because he and Mr. Cortez are estranged.” “What’s his name and why it’s so easy for Mr. Cortez to believe that his wife could cheat with him?” “His name is Dean and he was Mrs. Cortez’s boyfriend before Mr. Fredrick Cortez.” The mouth of her mother formed into an O.

Mayor Perez winced in pain, "What are you talking about? Who are you?" "I'm Carlo Don El Marco, that's right but, you don't know the true story about me. I'm not his legitimate son, I'm a bastard from another woman and not entitled to climb to the cartel throne. They treated me like sh+t and sent me far from home to a battle of no return while the legitimate son is groomed to become the boss of the cartel operation. I am much better than him! He doesn't even know how to handle a gun but me, I've killed men, a lot em' "

Montana I wanted to scream but I couldn't even open my mouth it felt like I was hypnotized, he is Dominican El-Marciano, the son of the unshakable Drug lord, right now I could feel beads of sweat running down from my forehead, my blood stopped running immediately, how did I end up in the house of the Maciano's, I couldn't take it anymore the air-conditioned was on but I am sweating so bad that I started dating myself with my own hand

“Armando Cortez isn’t just anyone. He’s—” “If you’re trying to make a point, get to it already,” I cut him off, irritation seeping into my voice. “I’m not in the mood for riddles, Stephan. Spit it out.” He gave me a hard look, clearly weighing his words. “Armando Cortez,” he said slowly, “isn’t just a casino owner. He’s connected to the Cosa Nostra.” The name hit me like a cold slap to the face. My grip on the invitation tightened as I stared at him. “Connected how?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous.

But the other man gently followed and put his arm around her waist behind. “Don't do that, obediently sit outside! Mira Aura scolded love, the man obediently let go of his hand and turned to sit on the sofa. Mira Aura stepped out, handed the tea cup in her hand to the other man and whispered, "How are you today? Have you heard any news?" "Don't mention it again, today is unlucky!" The man took the tea, took a sip, and continued: “Carwyn fired! After this, I won't be able to work at JK anymore! Sister To, you won't blame me, will you?" That man was Cortez. He is the one who has been plugged into JK by Mira Aura for a long time, in the past, because she wanted to help him get there, she spent

It was a sound engineered to prey on the deepest, most primal fears. Every member of Marcus’s elite Ghost squad froze, their military discipline warring with the lizard-brain instinct to either flee or collapse. One of them, a mountain of a man named Cortez who boasted scars from a dozen forgotten conflicts and had a reputation for being unflappable, turned a sickly shade of green. His knuckles, gripping the forend of his assault rifle, were bone-white. He swallowed hard, a wet clicking sound in the sudden quiet that followed the echo.

The name detonates in the room. “Victor Salazar.” For several seconds no one speaks. The silence stretches across the boardroom like a crack in glass—fragile, sharp, ready to shatter. Across the table, Marcus Dela Torre exhales slowly. “Well,” he murmurs. “That explains a lot.” Elaine Porter shakes her head. “That’s impossible.” But uncertainty creeps into her voice, softening the denial. Beside me, Adrian Reyes doesn’t move. His gaze remains locked on Leonardo Castillo.