Raphael De La Ghetto Novels & Stories

NARRATOR POV: SETH ADEBAYO "Hold on—wasn't Rapha just some talentless eyesore from a broken bloodline?" Hugh blinks his eyes, looking like my fists just punched him right in the gut. "How the hell did that omega pull that off?" Outside my private conference room in the grand pack house, Myles, Aron, and Hugh are gathered in a tight circle, sneakily watching the Stany Competition on Aron’s phone. When Rapha’s painting is announced as a top-three finalist, all three of my top deltas freeze in absolute disbelief.

" You can't do this to a fair maiden" " Oh! speaker of the truth, justifier of the weak, tell me I'm just trying to have some fun"said Raphael with a cocky smile on his face. He returned to his opponent now and it has been a battle of exchange of words. "Let us make a deal" proposed Micah "Let me hear it" "I will send ladies, the finest to you to give you as much pleasure as you may desire but all I request is that you let this one be"

She replied patiently. She was so fucking patient and kind to me and it was way too much. I didn't deserve it for real. This was way too much patience and kindness for one person to be emitting. "Well, his name is Raphael Dominic and he owns a chain of businesses, fancy restaurants and wine halls included; he literally produces his own wine. He also has an endorsement with Ethereum."

Ann admitted. Holly sighed in defeat. "Yeah, I'm nearly done." Ann nodded with a smile. "I want to show you something," Ann said. "Come on." she took Holly's hand and led her towards town. -------- "Isn't that...?" Holly asked hesitantly. They were in the shopping centre, people milling around, some carrying bags. The two girls stood in front of a shop decorated to look like an elves workshop, a big red arrow pointing to the entrance. "Santa's Grotto." Ann stated the obvious.

Giovanna had taken their contact information so I was sure to be pressured to visit them soon enough. “Who is this hot piece of masculinity? Mama, I thought you promised to stop entertaining so many young men.” Giovanna’s sister said, running her finger up my arm and walking behind me. I shook off the limb and cleared my throat, standing to introduce myself. I was already deeply irritated by this woman but I was still a gentleman. “I’m Raphael, Giovanna’s fiancé.” I said as politely as I could, stretching my hand for a shake. She took it gracefully and studied my entire being, smirking to herself when she was content with what she had seen.

Yeah she was seventeen and stubborn on so many levels but she also was a lot more mature than most girls her age. Raphael got up from his throne and cleared his throat to get everyone's attention in the room. The talking stopped at once and everyone’s attention was on him. He was almost as old as the King. He was around 930 years old and he was sired by the King. Raphael had wavy brown hair that was shoulder length. He had striking deep sea green eyes. Belle heard her little sister suck in her breath, she was studying him. Her sister talked to her through their mental link. "You can keep the King I will take him. He is built like a god."

But I didn't run. I squeezed through the collapsed entrance, my skin burning from residual silver in the air. The interior was chaos—walls crumbling, fires burning, and everywhere that silver light pulsing. And standing in the center, surrounded by broken bodies and shattered restraints, was something I barely recognized. Racheal had transformed, but not into any wolf I'd ever seen. This was from legends. The Ghost Wolf. An actual embodiment of primal werewolf power in its purest, most terrifying form. Her eyes met mine across the destruction, and I saw no recognition in them. Only rage, power, and the promise of violence.

I followed it like a compass I wasn’t supposed to have. Raphael stood in the middle of a living room that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated clutter and loved power. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like it was his personal snow globe. He wore a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled once, forearms bare, a thin scar running along the left one like a signature. His hair was still mostly black, but silver had started winning battles at the temples. He looked exactly like the man my mother had warned me about and nothing like the uncle who used to slip me twenty-dollar bills at family barbecues when I was twelve.