Noir Fiction Novels & Stories

But he followed me tonight. The Noir de Costas bled into the dark behind us. My shadows, my family of knives, guns, and loyalty that can't be broken. Their movements were quiet and precise. The Noirs were already cleaning up the higher floors of this skyscraper, where drug dealers were shot down in alleys and their bodies were left to cool under fluorescent lights. We moved with the night, hunting and erasing. As one of my men dragged a body across the floor into the dark, Damian flinched. The smear left behind caught the dim light.

Yeah, he'd learned to practice patience, but dealing with the police while they questioned Betty had just about driven him to the edge of reason. He opened the car door for her, holding her elbow as she climbed in. Daylight had waned, and the parking garage was dimly lit, the sound of other hospital visitors echoing through the cement structures. Betty listened for other things. Furtive footballs on the pavement. The click of a gun safety being released. The slide of fabric or the soft huff is a breath. Someone had tried to kill Dan just a few weeks ago, and there was no reason to believe that person would be content to let him live. The road went quiet as he stepped around the car. The soun

His palms still framing her face. His brilliant golden eyes, blazing with desire, scanned hers. Simultaneously, her nostrils flared. Lara could sense a woman’s perfume still clung to him. Her stomach twisted painfully. Christophe had been in close bodily contact with another woman. Nausea doused her excitement. She jerked her head free and slid upright on wobbly legs. “No doubt you’re very familiar with those kinds of facilities.” An ebony eyebrow elevated. “Do you want the truth or a polite fiction? Of course, there have been women in my life, but never more than one at a time.”

Two years after Wolfgang and Cummins met, the bank suddenly started to grow, as they also began to accept paintings and sculptures as collateral five years later, Wolfgang got the company on the listings of the American stock exchange. Danny then switched his mind to the profile of the five people who had borrowed money from Edwin Loans, and had been murdered. The circumstances surrounding each victim’s death are not only connected by the money they owed the bank, but also by the manner in which they had been killed. Each of the victims had had their throats cut, and a part of their body mutilated. He considered the first victim. Madame Elizabeth Dubois was a rich hotelier in Marseille, she

The new accountant needed before the blood dries on the ledger. Classy place. The large leather soles tapped past my door—too sharp, too neat to be anyone but one of the upper-floor sharks. The house had that polished kind of quiet, where bad things happen and the furniture knows better than to creak about it. I was hungry, but couldn’t think of eating, or even drinking coffee. There’s something off about murder in the morning. It doesn’t have the same noir poetry as midnight gunshots. The morning aftermath feels rushed, like someone skipped breakfast and went straight for the mundane problem-solving.

Sharon McQueen looked happy, and when she blew me a kiss, worded ‘Thank you’, and then slowly faded from sight, my heart skipped a beat. When I finally turned and looked at the road before us, the world indeed seemed to be a brighter place. Author’s note. In my first novel, I wanted to tip my hat to a very influential story, Raymond Chandler’s the Big Sleep, and though many elements of this hardboiled detective story made it into my tale, the one thing I could never seem to make work was the romance story. So, when I was asked if I had such a story that could be entered into this collection, I realised here was my chance to fix that omission. There are also elements from other classic noir/r

The steam from his coffee curdled. ​"She found the hidden folder, Nora," the man whispered, his eyes darting toward the violet shadows. "She found the 300,000 words. She thinks I spent too much time perfecting your 'Soul' and not enough time on our 'Reality'." ​[GENRE SHIFT: DOMESTIC NOIR / META-VENDETTA.] [THREAT LEVEL: PERSONAL.] ​The Arrival of the Shadow-Author

The TV in the corner was flashing headlines that made him turn more serious with each word. “BREAKING NEWS: Nicholas Amaro arrested in connection with arson, fraud, and organized crime.” The news anchor’s voice rang out like a siren in the room. Photos of Nicholas being led into a police car with his hands cuffed behind him filled the screen as cameras flashed and reporters shouted. Victor didn’t blink. He just leaned back slowly, taking a deep breath. He knew this day would come. But now that it had, he wasn’t shocked, but just calculating.

Damnit, I knew I shouldn't have watched it on his TV but what choice does a man who hasn't gotten any action in weeks have? "Three categories," he said. "We've discussed this." I looked at the city below. He wasn't wrong. A club was a good place for a man like me who could probably……escape. Fine. — Noir was what happened when money had taste and taste had a budget and the budget had no ceiling. Dark, low, with that kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were keeping something interesting from someone. Lorenzo walked through it like a man checking that nothing had been moved. I walked through it like a man who had just remembered who he was outside of someone else's house.

The kind that forces a mind to start asking questions it had never considered before. The cover page alone would be enough: ‘The man whose house you live in… is the man who killed your mother.’ I could almost imagine Nora reading that line. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then the slow, creeping need to verify. Typically her. Because the file didn’t just throw the statement at her. It guided her. Dates. Locations. Fragments of Istanbul’s reports. And one name that kept appearing quietly in the margins of everything. Antonioni D’Angélo.