Mrs Wallace Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

Wallace had urgent news, so Jane dismissed Candace, instructing her to return to the room and look after Wendy. The moonlight was cold and faint, casting a hazy glow over Jane. Her expression was calm and reserved. "What is it that has you so worked up?" she asked. Wallace, already bursting to speak, began, "That woman… I followed your orders. I used medicine to temporarily make her mute and sent her to the brothel. "The madam there, following their usual practice, inspected her first to decide whether to take her in. I waited outside, but not long after, the madam stormed out and started cursing at me. Can you guess why?"

"Mrs. Wallace Sr. How have you been recently?" Tia asked. She looked embarrassed as she met Mrs. Wallace Sr.'s eyes. "Don't worry about it, Tia. I'm fine. Luna's been here taking care of me. Please don't pretend you're fine when you're not in the future, okay? It's worrying," said Mrs. Wallace Sr. with some agony in her voice. Mrs. Wallace Sr. had overheard that Tia had gotten pneumonia and was at the brink of death due to her delay in getting treatment.

Now, I was going to be a slut, a cheap slut for the mafia lord. The door flew open and I looked up, my face fell when I saw Wallace walking in with his usual mockery smile pasted on his lips. "I knew you'd walk into trouble one day. Now, look at you," I roll my eyes at him. "If you're not here to untie me, use the door," I rudely told him and his smiles vanished. He was pissed by my comment but what I didn't understand was that he didn't scold me as always. He came closer and began opening the handcuffs. When the handcuffs fell on the bed, I rubbed my red wrists but Wallace didn't let me catch some breath, he grabbed me by my shirt, "Believe me, you won't make it alive tonight."

"Moss is waiting." "She's building the case against Gabe," Wallace said. "Go hand her what she needs." "Moving now." "Keep your mouth shut. Don't call me back." Wallace dropped the receiver onto the hook, chest heaving. He turned, wiped his palms on his jacket, and walked back to the dining room. The guy at the counter didn't move, but his eyes tracked Wallace through the mirror above the pie case. Wallace slid back into his vinyl seat. The waitress came over and filled his mug without asking. He picked up the cup, hands steady now, and took a bitter sip.

However, their happy mood had been spoiled by this group of people. “You…” Wendell was angered. He looked at Myra and Chase and suddenly recognized them. “I remember you. Aren’t you that unknown woman the Wallaces took home? I saw you stirring up trouble at Vince Waterson’s party!” “Now that you know we’re from the Wallaces, please leave,” Myra said while trying her best not to blow up. “So what if you’re a Wallace, bitch? We aren’t afraid of you!” Wendell sneered and said, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Wendell Wilson. My family is an influential family from Camland. Get lost if you know what’s good for you!”

I gestured back. He looked at Cooper, who seemed surprised. “May I talk to her alone, please?” Cooper fumbled to stand up and smiled tightly at me. “See you later, Mave.” I nodded and smiled tightly. “Bye.” Wallace took a seat across the table. I didn’t mind telling him to order his coffee. I was sure he didn’t drink in a coffee shop like this, and he was probably scared of getting poison. “May I ask why are you here?”

Brown exhausted eyes went to the vintage old clock of the large hall which told it was past five in the evening. Time to go home. Stacy's fingers took speed, eyes moving on the paper as she edited the last sample of the news which would be the next day's headline of a local newspaper, 'Cityscape'. 'Unknown Murders in The City' was the headline that her fifty-seven years old employer, Mr Wallace suggested. The old man had some weird headings but people wouldn't care as long as they got some topics to hold a conversation about.

Chapter 25: The Master Copy The sun rose higher over the Brooklyn harbor. It cast a glow across the wide-plank floors of the warehouse. Elena stood by the glass display case near the entrance. She watched the light hit the black iron key and the yellowed edges of the recovered Wall Street manuscript. For fifteen years her words had been a product. They were spun quickly to satisfy demanding platforms. They were wrapped in storylines and hidden behind a fake name. Looking at the pages now she didn't see a trap or a writer's cage. She saw where her fiction had broken down the walls of an empire.