Mugman Angry Novels & Stories

Every time I saw her, I thought about her daughter floating in the water where Frank had left her. There was one man, the father of one of Frank’s victims, who was so sick with rage that he looked like he’d stuck his finger in a socket every time he laid eyes on Frank. He’d go from this slack, tired-looking man to someone whose whole body was rigid and red with fury. He’d scream and hurl obscenities. The morning after I’d watched Frank place the unidentified bundle in the trunk of his car, the Angry Man (as I’d come to think of him) tried to throw a rock at us before the others in his group stopped him. He collapsed, wailing, into the arms of a woman.

Each one of us was bruised and beaten, but we knew that we managed to take out our anger somehow. It was times like this when I knew that things needed to be handled by blood. The anger I was feeling, the pain, the ache in my chest; I couldn’t just kill the pain with a simple workout. Yaroslav looked at me, returning the smirk when he saw the cut that he made, his own cheek wasn’t any better; but hey, it was what we signed up for. I got up, pulling him to stand with me before helping Lyov while Yaroslav helped Timur.

Antonio. The club’s owner, He teps between me and the mugger, He’s taller than I remembered, broader, His face is all sharp angles, He has high cheekbones, a blade of a nose, lips that are always pressed into a thin, unreadable line. But his eyes… God, his eyes are the thing that makes my stomach flip. They’re the darkest blue i’ve ever seen. “Walk away,” Antonio says, voice low, smooth. The mugger laughs, a wet, nervous sound. “Fuck off, man. This ain’t your business.”

I said calmly without pause, and his eyes narrowed at me. He snatched the coffee mug off the table, but I was quick to duck as he hurled it at me. The mug missed me entirely, smashing into the wall behind me. I straightened up as a domestic staff member appeared and looked around the dining room with wild eyes. I turned to the man, and nodded for him to go ahead and clean up. “You are such a hateful woman.” Dean cursed now, wiping his lips savagely with a piece of napkin and tossing it on the table.

Damian sounded a little breathless. He hung up. As I lay on the freezing floor, I stared at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling, and I started laughing. ‘Damian, you told me before that mafia members never cried. They only shed blood,’ I thought. Since he wanted a perfect puppet, I would prepare a perfect funeral for myself. … When I woke up in the hospital, Chester was sitting beside me. “You almost died. Did you know that you have severe pancreatitis? Where’s Damian? He didn’t even come to sign the papers.” He tossed a medical report in front of me.

And the most annoying part of everything was that she was laughing. This was something new entirely. She threw her head back and laughed loudly at something Emma's boy had said, and then she ruffled his hair and he ducked away grinning, and she laughed again. The nerve of her to be happy and laughing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Rage and anger settled on me and I began punching my steering. Ahhh, Clara, when I fucking get hold of you, gosh… you're going to regret disrespecting me. The stupid bitch was supposed to be broken.

This had been his obsession for a long time, and now things seemed to not be going as planned. Meanwhile, his men, fully aware of what he could do in his anger, quietly withdrew, as they watched him break the glass cup in his hand. His hand was bleeding, but he didn't seem to feel the pain. Rather, he was shaking with endless wave of fury. His men, in panic, knew they needed to find another way to help their leader, or else, they won't live for another second. With fearful and apologetic faces, they embraced themselves for the pain coming.

I take a sip of the scalding tea and gulp it down to avoid burning my tongue worse only to sear my throat as well, and I slam the mug down on the table. Ryan looks away. “There isn’t.” My anger has finally returned. I sit up and throw the pillow I’m holding across the room. It’s not the least bit satisfying when it lands with a soft whoosh, so I grab my teaspoon and chuck it hard enough that it hits the floor with a loud clatter. “Here.” Ryan holds up my mug. “Right against the door.” I glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.” But I grab the mug anyway and stand to pitch it like a Major League Baseball player, throwing with all my might. The mug breaks once it hits the door, the big ceramic

I wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury myself. Before the tension could stretch any further, a man suddenly came sprinting toward us holding another cup of coffee, completely out of breath like he had run across the entire street. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry!" He bowed repeatedly, like his life depended on it, which, judging from the ice in the arrogant man's expression, it probably did. The cold man glanced at me again with visible irritation. "Is she mute or something?" Then, with open disgust, he added, "Ahh… I hate beggars."

"What's shameful is engaging in immoral behavior, like, you know...stealing someone else's husband." Megan's face turned a furious shade of red. Her smug smile vanished, leaving behind a tight-lipped expression. Anger and humiliation flashed across her face, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She opened her mouth to retort but seemed at a loss for words. Her confidence visibly shattered, though she tried to conceal it from the wolf beside her. "Serves her right!" I thought triumphantly.