Novel & Cerita Rody And Vincent Dead Plate

Halfway up, he shifts. Bones crack. Tendons strain unnaturally. His wolf— black and vicious— lunges out of the ritual circle. Before he lands, his gleaming canine latches around a werewolf’s neck. He rips his head right off his neck. Blood gushes everywhere. Twin howls fill the air. Vincent hauls his weight into both wolves. He slashes one across the chest in rapid succession. He’s dead in seconds. The last wolf bites down on Vincent’s back and they go tumbling down a narrow trail.

he said. “Can't it wait?” I asked. “I am not afraid,” he answered. I turned to Cara. “Tell the maids to prepare you something to eat. I don't want any more reports about you not eating, or I will force food down your throat myself”, I told her and dismissed her. “What is it?” I asked Ben once Cara left. “Vincent Vincenzo was killed last night”, Ben told me. This information made my insides turn as I stood up almost immediately panicked.

I grinned as I aimed. Vincent turned to look in my direction at the sound of the hammer being cocked, and then he grunted, falling backward right off the bed, his blood splattered over the bed, the wall, and on my trembling wife. I slowly rose, Carlo stepping back until he was now pressed against the bedroom door. With the letter opener gripped in my fist, I stepped up to Vincent’s corpse. He lay there, his gaze trained on me with lifeless eyes, the bullet hole centered between them.

calls echo room to room. Until— "Got him! Southeast bedroom!" I push past agents, ignoring Rivera's shout. Need to see for myself. Vincent Reyes sits on the edge of a cot, defeated. Not running. Not fighting. Waiting. Our eyes lock. Something passes between us. Recognition. Understanding. He knows why I'm here. "They'll kill me if I talk," he says simply. "I'll kill you if you don't," I reply. He laughs, hollow. "That's the thing about death, De Luca. It only works once as a threat."

We still got it. But victory is short lived when I hear Vincent cry out. I turn towards the sound of his short and he's on his knees, crimson blooming across his chest, but he's got Lupe in a death grip. They struggle, and I watch as Vincent drives his knife up under Lupe's ribs. The rival president's eyes go wide, then vacant. When the echo of the last gunshot fades, we're the only ones left standing. Vincent slumps against a pillar, breathing hard.

“One of my men thought it would wise to hide some of my merchandise and sell it for half the price at the fucking border.” Interesting. “What did you do to him?” Vincent sits up, his eyes shining with excitement for the first time since he stepped foot in here. “I hung him over a grill and gently roasted the motherfucker alive. While he was roasting, I carved out his left eye and chopped off the fingers from his right hand. His death was definitely slow and painful, but seeing that he’d worked with me for over ten years, I let him off easily.” I lean back in my chair and just… stare at him.

Willow looked around for Roman, but the SUV was empty. "Where is he?" she screamed. "What did you do to him?" Vincent laughed, a hollow, dry sound. "He’s already at the bottom of the Hudson, my dear. He didn't even put up a fight. He was too busy looking at your picture to notice the silver needle in his neck." Willow’s world shattered. The ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Roman was gone? The Alpha of the Vale, the male who had haunted her dreams for ten years, was dead?

Moonlight washed the flagstones of the Montclair estate in pale, cold light. By the time I arrived at the chapel with my people, Vivienne was already there, directing two servants to pry open the coffin. Dr. Pemberton stood off to the side with his medical case. He was silver-haired and ruddy-cheeked, looking as though none of this had anything to do with him. "Faster! Hurry up!" Vivienne hissed, keeping her voice low but unable to mask the desperation in it. "Any longer and that vile woman is going to get my son killed!"

My stomach twisted in anticipation of the horror waiting beyond the open doors. The meeting room was grand, with high ceilings and heavy chandeliers that swayed ever so slightly as if trembling in response to the carnage below. The long mahogany table, once a place of power and control, was now marred by the grotesque stillness of death. Three bodies sat slumped in their chairs, their forms eerily motionless, their expressions frozen in horror. Vincent D’Angelo. Antonio Russo. Carla Marconi.

“First, check if Vincent is alive. And if he’s with my brother.” Color drained from Richard’s face as though I’d slit his throat with the name. His gaze darted to Diego, searching for strength he couldn’t find. “Boss…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You killed Vincent yourself. We buried him. His grave it’s in your family yard.” The memory cut sharp, unbidden. Vincent’s body, heavy in my arms. The hollow sound of dirt raining down over him. My own hand closing his eyes. Dead. Finished. I had made sure.