Novels About Nyc Novels & Stories

If Meekey was going to carve out a future for herself—maybe even earn a sliver of space in her daughter’s world—she had to do it the right way. Build a life. Get clean. Stay steady. And hold onto her leverage—not as a weapon, but as protection. She finished her cigarette, crushed it under her boot, and went back inside. She worked until close, then walked the six blocks back to Vanessa’s apartment with her hoodie up and her head down. Inside, the house was quiet. But on the table, a folded note waited for her. Meekey, Some guy came by asking questions. Said he knew you. Said his name was Rome.

“We.” The car moves through the city, the particular density of a November afternoon in Manhattan, cabs and pedestrians and the city doing its relentless, indifferent, luminous thing around us, and I think about the morning six weeks ago when Isabella Hart walked into the lobby of Blackwood Holdings and the headline appeared at six in the morning and I sat at the kitchen island with my hands around a cold coffee and understood that something that had been moving underneath the surface was now at the surface and could not be put back under.

Hours of sleeping, tolerating Finn's comments about how America was an unfair and racist nation, hours of listening to Carmen of how she would find an American boyfriend, had paid off when they arrived in New York. And as immediate as a cab drove them off from the airport, Ruby had a sense of deja Vu. The street lights, the skycrapers, the hustle and bustle of the city calling her like how a moth was drawn to a flame. She had been there, she couldn't remember but she felt she had been there often. New York was nothing like Queenstown or generally nothing like New Zealand. There was the slow traffic, a lot of people loitering around, the so many wonderful lights, the cab drivers shouting at o

New York City, New York, America, 1891 They had been a few minutes too late; that had been evident in the hurried evacuation of the East River Hotel their suspect made as Aaron and Ward rounded the corner of the poorly lit Manhattan street. After years of investigation, deduction, conversation, and a near miss back in Whitechapel last winter, they had watched the Jack the Ripper case go silent in London. For months, there was nothing, not a peep. It wasn’t until Aaron had finally stumbled into his old informant friend one night about a month ago that he learned Jack was quiet because Jack was gone. Fearing he could not escape their clutches next time, he had taken off for America, New York t

One that I chose not to reply to. New York was always busy, always something going on. It was a tourist destination and had its own reputation of the glitz and glamor. People saw the New York above ground. Even the seedier parts. The homeless population always skyrocketed with the rise in the cost of living. People thought that they were the underbelly but that was a joke. They put on blinders and refused to look any further. Because if they did, they would find a gun pointed back at them.

No one deserves to die, especially this way. I work in quite the most interesting part of New York City, in Williamsburg, but thankfully the area in which I live is quite a bit different. So much nicer. I live in a nice brownstone in Brooklyn Heights overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge, the Manhattan skyline, the general chaos of the city that never sleeps. I love New York City, I love it all, would I ever leave this for a quieter life? Who knows. I’m just living the single life. I have my own very successful juice bar, I have my own apartment, and a close knit friends group. What don’t I have?

he yells, hopping into the car. I join the line of fellow New Yorkers all waiting for a coffee. It feels refreshing, to be back in the hustle and bustle of the city. In LA, people act like they don’t give a shit about you but stare at you and judge you. In New York, people act like they don’t give a shit about you because they truly don’t. Everyone in line is so preoccupied with their own lives, they don’t have time to judge mine. The woman in front of me looks like she is leaving a spin class, or maybe I’d peg her more as the hot yoga type. Whatever it is, she holds her head high as she stands in a mass of people who all wear business attire.

DARIUS’S POV The city of New York didn’t care that a mountain had just exploded upstate. To the millions of people scuttling along the sidewalks, it was just another Tuesday. The morning commute on Wall Street was a grey, grinding tide of expensive suits and black umbrellas. None of those people had any idea that the very ground beneath their polished Oxford shoes was humming with a dead man’s final, bitter grudge. They were worried about coffee and stocks, while I was worried about the end of the world.

The apartment quiet around us. "This is our family," he said. "This is our family." "Grace and Daniel." "Grace and Daniel." He put his arm around me. Both of us looking from one door to the other. Outside the windows, the city moved. November in New York. Cold and clear and loud in the way the city was always loud. Taxis and voices and the ordinary noise of millions of people existing in the same space. Inside: two sleeping children. One husband. One home. Everything that had been taken and everything that had been built from the taking.

​The North Atlantic had been a cacophony of salt and iron, but New York was a different kind of storm. We arrived under the cover of a freezing drizzle, tucked into the back of a delivery truck that smelled of industrial solvent and old newsprint. Moretti’s "Network" was a silent machine a chain of couriers, dockworkers, and basement-dwellers who moved us across the border like contraband.