Southern Man Novel Novels & Stories

Cassidy looked after me confused, his lip bleeding. "You tried to kiss my woman?" I asked angrily. "I...I.. he stuttered pathetically. "Well?" "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." I punched him again. "You ever touch her again and I chip your dicm off everyone knows what a man white you are." "I won't, I promise." "You better. And stick to your whores and stay away from my woman or you'll be six feet under understand?" "Yeah." "Yeah what?"

As he progressed a little further, he began to watch the scene he saw with curiosity. A man was out hunting. He was collecting the birds he had shot in one shot. A person with boots up to the knees, an outfit in brown tones suitable for these places, and a hat in the same tone on his head. He began to watch carefully. The man bent down and walked slowly, looking at the great tree. He stopped suddenly and took aim. He fired the rifle and calmly picked up the bird that had fallen to the ground behind him and put it in the basket. Then he kissed his rifle and set it on the ground. He didn't come around very often, but when he did, he had never seen anyone like this. After the man put t

______ Episode 11 – The Mafia Affairs The rain fell on New Corinth like a judgment, washing the grime from the asphalt but never from the souls beneath. From the back booth of Il Caffè della Luna, Pope Conti watched the downpour through the streaked window. At twenty-eight, he had the lean build of a man who worked with his hands and the guarded eyes of one who knew the city’s true currency wasn’t money, but fear. His auto shop was three months behind on its “insurance” payments to the Moretti family. The envelope in his leather jacket pocket, thin, final, and utterly insufficient, felt like a lead weight.

Seizing his chance, Manuel raised his dagger and stabbed into Sunny’s shoulder. Sunny let out a stifled grunt. He grabbed the blade that was stuck in his shoulder and pulled it out forcefully. As blood jutted out of the wound into the air, he struck Manuel's jaw with a palm strike, sending him flying into the air with blood flowing out of his lips and nose. “Mr. Southern Sr.!” One of his men wanted to help him, but he was hit in the leg with an iron pipe by the person behind him. He fell to one knee and dodged another attack. He couldn't get himself out.

I twist, aiming low, but another hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off the sound before it can leave my throat. “Easy,” a voice murmurs near my ear. “We just want to talk.” I bite down hard. The man swears and tightens his grip. I fight anyway — knees, elbows, weight thrown back — but there are too many of them, moving like they’ve done this before. They drag me toward the van. This is it, a part of my mind notes distantly. This is the mistake. The door yawns open, dark and waiting. A gunshot cracks the air.

"I am sorry." Then I turned to look back at the man. "Come along, little mate. "He grabbed my hand and led me off the floor. I was in shock at what had just happened. I had a mate. He was my mate. He wasn't a Northern he was from the south. What did this mean? Oh man, he was going to hate the cold.

| Michael | "None of them gets the girl," Jackson trudged into the kitchen, a devastated look on his face. Samantha frowned in confusion as he sat down on the chair next to hers. "Who doesn't get the girl?" she asked him. "The...the...This book I was reading," he began, and I almost groaned, knowing what was to come. First, it was the omegaverse shit, and now no one gets the girl. Where does he even get these books?" I was reading Man Down, by that new author in your company. The Mafia Book. There are two guys who were once friends but drifted apart after they both became rivals. They meet the same girl, and unknowingly, she plays both of them. In the end, they fall in love and are about to

I sat in the chair nearest the door because sitting nearest the door felt like the right instinct, and I waited, and the house waited around me, and nobody spoke. Then the front door opened. The man who walked in was tall, not as tall as Damien but close, with lighter colouring and a face that shared certain features with Damien's the way different editions of the same book share a cover. You could see the connection if you were looking for it. The jaw, the set of the eyes, the particular way he held himself like he had grown up being told he was important and then at some point stopped believing it. He was maybe thirty. He was wearing a jacket that had been expensive once and was not anymor

“Too late for me. You see, I thought I’d escaped. Thought I’d denied . . . It. Him. Whatever. Thought I’d been strong, that my cynicism had saved me. I eventually recovered. Couldn’t stay in Tahawus anymore but that didn’t matter because no one stayed there. Almost everyone was dead, the town finished. I bounced around for a few years, finally came here, got a job at The Can Man. I made a life of sorts. Wasn’t much, but it was something, y’know?” A mental image struck, just then. A memory of the last time I’d dropped off cans and bottles at The Can Man for one All Saints fundraiser or another, and the man who’d quietly taken my bag: a thin, blank-faced middle-aged man with a slightly cadaver