Mike Hanlon Novels & Stories

I stood by his side, my hand on his arm, projecting unity—the pregnant luna, symbol of continuity. Lunch was a tense affair: platters of cold meats and salads in the dining room, conversations veering from investments to rivalries. One elder, a grizzled wolf named Thorne, leaned in conspiratorially. "Hanlon's making moves in Europe now—buying up allies. Heard he tried to poach one of ours last week." Damian's jaw tightened, his fork pausing mid-air. "We've handled it. Focus on the audit; our books are clean."

Ronan glances at me, his shoulders slump and he whispers something so quietly, I don’t catch a single word. Frustrated, I grab his throat and press his back against the wall. I’m not hurting him, just restraining him and showing how serious about my questions I am. His eyes widen twice the size as he blurts out, “Michael is from the Deadfang pack, a very respected member in fact. He’s a high profile doctor, used to be a professor at Ravencrest. And... he’s a close friend with Deadfang’s Alpha too.” Ronan adds the last statement in a whisper.

I fix myself. We park and exited the car. We enter the elevator and go to the 12th floor of the building. "Mr. Brooklyn!" An old man shouted. Hilary's dad and the old man bro hug each other and shake hands. "Here's my daughter Hilary." I bowed and shake hands. "And here's my son, Richard." A five-foot and nine inches tall guy wearing a mask extends his hand. I shake hands with him. "So let's talk about the wedding?" My eyes almost got out in my eye socket. "WEDDING!?"