New York Novel Rutherfurd Novels & Stories

Ruth decided to quit her job and relocate from New York to Las Vegas AKA Sin City, she wants to do fun things to spice up her life and Sin City seems to be the best place for that. She entered her small yet comfortable apartment, and she already packed bags stood next to her bed. She looked at the room one last time before carrying her stuff out of the house. She took a taxi to the airport, she sat on the long role of chairs while waiting for her flight to be announced. Her dark brown eyes didn't wander around, she just stared at her fingers while waiting, her chestnut brown hair was tied to a pigtail, and her normal lips curved into a little smile when she saw a little girl playing with her

Chris: Pardon me if you mind, but I am kinda in a hurry Mrs Rutherford. I said as soon as she set the glass on the table. Mrs Rutherford: I know why you are in a hurry, Mr Hunt. I am here to help you. I am a senior investigation officer of Scotland Yard. Agent Wolf had sent me here. She replied with a small smile on her face. I nodded my head. Chris: How do you know, Mr Wolf? If I may ask? I asked her and she nodded her head. Mrs Rutherford: I guess, a week before your wedding, I went to New York City to find my husband. It was agent Wolf who helped me find my husband. If it wasn't for him, he would have died long ago.

I stuffed the last piece of clothing into the suitcase and snapped it shut, then I looked around the apartment. Having lived here for five years, my presence was everywhere, from the paintings on the walls to the throw pillows on the couch and the plants on the balcony. Now, those very details felt like a cruel joke. I wheeled my suitcase toward the living room and paused to look at the calendar. New Year’s Day was tomorrow. A fresh start and a brand-new year. Without hesitation, I reached for my phone and reserved a seat on the first high-speed train heading to Cedar Hollow, my hometown.

I’d ended up dead in a fleabag motel room, pumped full of heroin, written off by everyone as a strung-out junkie. This time, I wasn’t fighting. I was walking away. He stared, jaw tight with unspoken irritation, and spat through gritted teeth: “Get out.” I didn’t hesitate. I stepped out into the Manhattan snowstorm, Christmas had just passed, the city buried under a blizzard. The cold bit through my thin dress, but I didn’t stop walking. The hushed voices of huddled maids drifted over to me. “Did you hear? Miss Moretti’s only been in New York from Chicago for two weeks, and the Valentino family’s already cleared out every jewelry store on Fifth Avenue for her. Talk about devotion.”

A familiar kind of commotion moved through one side of the ballroom, not loud enough to be vulgar, but noticeable enough to redirect attention instinctively. The Rutherfords. Of course. Theodore’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his gaze lifted. Dr. Rutherford entered first beside his wife, both of them carrying the polished arrogance of people long accustomed to admiration. Even age had not softened the older man’s imposing appearance. His silver-threaded hair remained slicked neatly back from a sharp face carved permanently into superiority, while his wife wore elegance like armour, diamonds glittering coldly against her throat. Behind them came Willow.

It meant I had no will of my own, I belonged to the blood Alpha. We began the ride to the Silvercreek pack, my new home. It was almost dark now and we had been journeying for hours. This was actually my first time being in a carriage or leaving my pack. I was lost admiring the view of the outside world. It was beautiful and felt nice to know I was far from the place that choked and suffocated me for too long. The uncomfortable silence lingered for hours as we rode past the mountains, to the other side of the North, into the capital, which I heard was under his territory.

But I couldn’t. Because it was that cold, brilliant ruthlessness that had drawn me in. And it was the softness I’d glimpsed underneath that had ruined me. When we landed, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. New York air hit me like a slap—crisp, efficient, unsentimental. The warmth of paradise slipped off my skin like silk. Nathan moved ahead of me, his pace brisk, his phone already ringing. He held the car door open for me, but it was mechanical, a habit. There was no warmth in the gesture. No pause.

DAMIEN “We have to hit Yorkville on First Avenue. That old geezer in there did not pay last month’s kickback. He owes a thousand. Drake, you have Park Avenue, The Franklin Hotel. The owner’s name is Franco. He already paid. Just collect the invoice from him.” I read from the crumpled run sheet Gareth gives me at the start of every month. The paper is soft at the creases and smells faintly of smoke. We have just arrived in New York and I can feel the storm about to roll in. My heart is pounding, and adrenaline is already doing its work. This is the part of the job I live for. There is a sharp, greedy joy in it. I even hope, selfishly, that a few people fall behind on payments so we can teach

He sat back down on the metal folding chair and waited, staring at the water stain on the wall, counting down the hours until he had to leave. The sun was setting over the city when Ralph climbed into the back of a black SUV with tinted windows and no markings. The car smelled like leather and air freshener, and the driver didn't say a word as they pulled away from the curb and merged into the evening traffic. Ralph watched the streets roll past the window – the bodegas and the apartment buildings, the street vendors and the subway entrances. He had lived in New York his entire life. He knew every corner of this city, every shortcut and hidden alley, every late-night diner and every thing he

The rain didn’t fall, it drizzled Sideways, needle-sharp, the kind of New York storm that turns umbrellas inside out and makes strangers curse under their breath. Aurora Ryder and definitely “no, Voss, she reminded herself as if she'd lost her memory and was quick to snap herself right back.she stood on the curb outside Ryder Tower, one suitcase at her feet, crimson gown soaked through to the skin. The silk clung like guilt. A paparazzo’s flash popped. Then another.