The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari Novels & Stories

He wanted the freedom. Next, he sold his car—a polished, expensive machine that had always been more for appearances than comfort. Instead, he bought a monster truck. Big, powerful, unpolished. It wasn’t sleek like his old lifestyle, but it could carry what truly mattered: the belongings he refused to leave behind.

"I meant about my new car. Cost me a fortune and you didn't even comment on it." The change of topic threw Pietro for a moment and then he looked around him. His eyes widened and he let out a low whistle. "A McLaren F1? You have way too much money, Demetri." His friend beamed with pride, lovingly stroking the steering wheel as he gunned the engine and took off. "No point in having money if you don't get to treat yourself every now and then," he laughed. Pietro shook his head and rested back, closing his eyes and trying to psyche himself up for reaching the pack compound. He hoped there wouldn't be a lot of people around, that Rafe would realise he needed space and would keep the wolves away

Untouchable. “Well?” she asked sharply. “Do you at least know how to drive a Bentley?” “Yes,” he replied calmly. “And a Lamborghini. A Rolls. A Tesla. A Bugatti. And if needed, a tank.” The corner of his lips twitched. Barely. Ariana scoffed. “Funny. You’ll need one if you’re planning to keep up with me.” “Noted.” She brushed past him, ignoring how he smelled—clean spice and subtle wood, like expensive cologne and bad decisions.

but I do know I would pick anyone at all over Silas Wren. “Sold!” Rafe Lennox declares as he snatches the mic from the auctioneer. “Mr. Volkov, I had no idea you would be joining us today.” He simps. The stranger levels another cold look at Rafe Lennox and it’s because I’m staring hard at him that I see a muscle feather at his jaw, see Rafe blank at that look. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he hates the auction organizer but maybe he hates everyone.

Satisfied. “Oh,” he murmured. “You didn’t know.” I felt sick instantly. “You thought your life falling apart was coincidence?” he asked softly. “Bad luck? Debt?” My pulse started hammering. “Ruciano…” My voice shook. “He sold me to Carlino’s men because of money—” “Because I told him to.” The words destroyed whatever breath I had left. Silence rang inside my ears. Malder walked toward me calmly, like he wasn’t confessing to further ruin my life, burning the remaining pieces I've got left.

As she spoke, Jessica turned and walked back toward the pavilion, dialing Madame Johnson’s number as she approached the small corridor. The driver stayed behind at the pavilion. When mother and daughter entered the small corridor, they saw a monk in a gray robe sitting at the door, reading a scripture in his hands. The man appeared to be in his early forties, with a bald head and large ears, looking quite prosperous. “Excuse me, is Master Dyan here?” Jessica stepped forward and asked the monk. “The benefactor is here,” the monk looked up and said, noticing them. “Does Master know us?” Jessica’s expression changed. She was afraid that her words might raise suspicion with her mother, and she w

“Are you there now?” Don Grander asked Monk. Monk sat in his car outside the hospital as he talked with Don Grander over the phone. He had just arrived, but he knew that he could not stay parked in that spot longer than necessary. “All you have to do is get in there, get access to his word, and smother him,” Monk rehearsed the whole process that he had cooked up in his head over and over again.

That didn't happen. None of this had gone in his favor. He looked both ways before striding to the car and getting inside the sleek vehicle. The goon closed the door behind him, and a few seconds later the car was in motion. Mr. Monzoon sat opposite him wearing a beige-colored, expensive, tailored suit, and brown alligator loafers. A white fedora sat tilted on top of his balding head. The lit Cuban cigar in his mouth. The dimly lit car gave it a godfather-like ambiance. He reminded Geo of Marlon Brando in the Godfather. He spoke then.

It would definitely cost a lot to buy this in B City. “Are you the customer on Stormchase? Hop on,” Monique reached out her small face, blinking her bright eyes, then she went down and opened the door for that young man who had dumbfounded and standing there for a long time. “This is a Maserati! Are you Stormchase’s driver who has been taking requests?” The young man sounded amazed and opened his mouth wide in shock, that it could even fit a huge duck egg.

"And I swear, she's untouched. Completely clean. The Don will be very satisfied." "Look," he pleaded, "I'm even giving up my girl. So about that debt I owe you..." The man's eyes were flat as they scanned me, showing nothing. My hope vanished. He didn't recognize me. I remembered my father had been recruiting foreign muscle lately. They didn't follow the old family traditions. They only cared about money. The bald man, Rocco, walked up to me and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up. "Open your mouth," he ordered.