Scarface Novels & Stories

He did not greet me when I entered. He never wasted manners on theatre once the audience had arrived. “Carter,” he said. “Don.” I stopped three feet in front of him. Not submissive. Not challenging. Measured. The kind of posture men trust because it tells them what they want to hear. Useful. Controlled. Yours. Marco lifted his head at the sound of my voice. One eye was swollen shut. Blood clung to his teeth. “Please,” he rasped, and I almost admired him for trying. “Don, I didn’t sell anything. I swear to God, I didn’t—”

then she laughed it was dry and bitter. Mama Rita chuckled uncomfortably,”yeah,since you are an orphan and homeless,you can stay with me” Scar looked up”I'll decline that,I come with a bag of trouble, actually a truck full” “I don't mind,I sincerely don't mind” “Hold her down,kick that bitch ,she thinks she's better than others”scar curled as the kicks landed,”how about a makeover,a make over”the voices as they held her down,one of the ladies squatted before her with a piece of glass,scar trashed violently but the hands holding her was stronger,she sharp pain tore from her right ear to her cheek,she screamed as they left her not without final kicks,she screamed like a wounded bull pain blind

“…will meet her verdict.” He stepped back, letting his words hang heavy in the air. “But I am a reasonable man,” he added, his voice taking on a chilling casualness. “I believe in structure. A leader and followers. Roles that serve one purpose: to make the Scarface Cartel the most powerful mafia organization in the world.” His men remained silent, their heads still bowed as Deather raised his right hand, revealing the jagged scar that stretched across his face—a symbol of his resilience, ruthlessness, and domination. “To the Scarface Cartel!” he declared, his voice booming with authority.

This was my daily routine until I met him, the rouge Alpha and a fucking mate bond snapped into place. That’s right the Moon Goddess decided to give me a second chance mate and a fucking rogue. Don’t get me wrong he was hot, possibly the sexist man I had ever seen, extremely tall with black curly hair that hung around his face but it was his eye’s that stood out. They were gold and I mean golden. His left one had a nasty scar running from just above his eyebrow all the way to his jaw, but that never once took away from how fucking god like he was.

That is the truth. “What about Reagan’s? Did you put silver in her drink?” I ask him. “I did not!” he exclaims. “But you do know who did, don’t you?” I ask, and he grits his teeth. “Were you undermining me, Markus?” “I was protecting the pack!” he insists. “Were you planning to make me feral more quickly so you could take over the pack?” “I wasn’t making you feral,” he says. I get a hint of metal in my mouth but not the usual disgusting taste I get when I taste a lie. I turn and look at Reagan, not understanding why I taste metal, but not as much.

"But if there's one thing I know about Luke Navarro... it's that he doesn't run from the smoke." Rigo's mouth twitched, something between a grim smile and a sigh. "Then give me a match," he said.

“Prince of the pack. And you just fucked up big time.” Scarface turned and tried to run, but I’d already thrown myself at him. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him a good three feet off the ground without any trouble at all. “Who sent you?” I asked. “N—no one!” he stammered, trying to twist free. I tightened my grip. “Again.” He struggled to breathe. “Fine, fine! We were told to keep an eye out for you, that you’d be coming through here!”

On the other end, a polite, low chuckle came through. “Sir, sorry to bother you. My fiancée is young and just returned from another city. She has no connections in New York, making her an easy target. I’d like to understand what happened.” “No, no, you’re not bothering me at all!” Scarface instinctively stood up straighter. Carl’s voice remained cool, with a faint cough. “I don’t know how much you know about me, but I tend to be… quite vengeful.” Scarface’s heart nearly stopped.

the guy threatened, whom I named Moustache. Since we arrived, they haven't bothered to conceal their identities. Either they were incredibly stupid, or they weren't planning on letting me out alive. The one guy had an angry face with a contrasting thick black moustache to his bald head. I named him Moustache. The other had a scar across the left side of his face. I called him Scar. He looked even more frightening than the one in The Lion King. Scar walked down to the window. The window was just one big open rectangle. The glass hadn't been installed yet. Scar looked down as he smiled at himself.

I watch his hand pull the gun from the back of his trousers. "I will ask again. Who gave you permission to hit her?" His words are vicious, and Mr beefcake is a snivelling mess. Go on, Mr Scarface. Make him scream! I don't know why I'm calling him Scarface. Maybe it's because of the movie? Who knows? I don't even know if he has a scar on his face. I jump, holding in the scream as the gun fires, and my friend Mr beefcake falls to the floor.