Pulp Fiction In Chronological Order Novels & Stories

The faint throb of the rage pumping steadily through my veins was all I felt; all I allowed myself to feel. I would have to contact the Ivanovichs soon, one out of six of the families that made up the ruling Moscow mafia. They were worthy allies. The syndicate was divided up into equal halves. The upper tripartite and the second tripartite; I belonged to the upper triad. Belonged to the deadliest. Emily... The name passed through the confines of my mind as an aching whisper. With it came a warmth I immediately stiffened to. I was going to get my revenge, and it wouldn't matter who I took down in order get it.

The living room door swung open. “Good morning, Uncle,” a young man greeted. “Morning, Carlos,” Doctor Aurelio responded flatly. Carlos walked in, slipping off his shoes, a large leather bag in hand. “I know I’m late—sorry for the delay. You know how Rome works. These mafia bastards have more authority than our armed forces sometimes,” he said with a flat smile. Doctor Aurelio remained seated, silent, staring. “Here are the drugs you asked for,” Carlos said, setting the bag down and sitting on one of the sofas.

“I don’t even know how to drive.” I ignored her question, instead pulling out a thicker stack of white papers from the second envelope. I placed them in her hands, and she looked down, her brow furrowing as she realized what they were. Pages upon pages of stories, timelines, detailed accounts of how we met, how we dated, how we became engaged, fabricated memories carefully curated to fit the narrative I was crafting for us. A narrative she would learn to recite as truth. “Read it,” I said, my voice business-like and devoid of any warmth. “Every last word. Study it, memorize it. This is your life now, Cleo. These are the events that led you here. And in two days, you must know every detail by