The Night Deposit Whiskey Library Novels & Stories

Chapter 1 The Deal Barcelona, 9:00 p.m. "There seems a something special because you choose this place, usually you won’t meet in a place like this because you are unwilling to your lover," Nick mocked as he gave a code to the bartender to add whiskey to his glass. The two of them were in the lounge inside a five-star hotel. The atmosphere was quite relaxed for chatting, there were only a few visitors who were also enjoying their cocktails and whiskey. Beck shook his still glass of whiskey gently as if to mix the ice and whiskey. "Damn it, I can't make love with Sophie so freely anymore." He clenched his jaw.

I shut the door with my foot, dropped the groceries on the counter, and went straight to the shelf in the corner where I kept the only bottle of elderflower whiskey that had survived the last full moon’s madness. My hands shook as I uncorked it. I didn’t bother with a glass before I took a swig. The first sip burned. The second was fire in my lungs. The third… dulled the edges. My quarters were silent except for the quiet clink of the bottle against my teeth and the occasional creak of wood settling. I didn’t light the candles. Darkness suited me just fine. At least it couldn’t reflect what I looked like right now— disheveled, hurt, pathetic.

… Late at night, in a private room at an exclusive club, Harvey sat on the sofa with his legs spread apart, slamming the empty glass down on the coffee table. "Pour!" At his command, a friend who was drinking with him picked up the whiskey bottle and refilled the glass halfway. "Harvey, you've finished the entire bottle of whiskey!" Someone asked, "What's going on with you? Did you get dumped or something?" Harvey tilted his head back and downed the whiskey in one go, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing. When he set the glass down again, his dark eyes were shadowed with a brooding intensity.

A Bitter Morning Jeremy’s office in the Coliseum was a sanctuary of old footballs, championship banners, and the faint scent of leather and ambition. He closed the door behind him, tossed his keys on the desk, and opened the bottom drawer. Inside, a bottle of Jesse James whiskey glinted in the morning light. He poured himself a glass, the amber liquid trembling in his hand. He barely had time to take a sip before Jenifer walked in, her face drawn and expectant. She closed the door quietly. “You said it’s bad?”

Where Ares values connection, Marco values competence. I can work with that, I just need to approach him differently. I do my research. Marco runs every morning—six AM, along the Hudson River path. He works late most nights, leaving the BDS offices around eight or nine PM. He frequents a high-end whiskey bar in Midtown on Thursday evenings. It's a place where business discussions make sense. I choose the whiskey bar. It's called The Library—dark wood, leather chairs, the kind of place where deals are made over expensive scotch. The kind of place Marco would appreciate.

Henry’s POV The club’s bass thumped through the dimly lit VIP lounge, a pulsing rhythm that matched the pounding in my head. The secluded corner I’d reserved—tucked away behind velvet curtains and a discreet bouncer—was my sanctuary tonight, just like other nights but apart from yesterday. I leaned back as the amber glow of the overhead lights caught the whiskey in my glass, my third—or was it fourth?—of the night. I didn’t care. I needed to drown it all.

“I’ve had a long week.” “We all have.” The older man gestured toward the library. “Walk with me.” Noah followed without protest. The library remained one of the oldest rooms in the mansion. Shelves lined every wall, filled with first editions collected over decades. Nicholas poured two glasses of whiskey before offering one to Noah. He declined. Nicholas smiled. “You never liked whiskey.” “No.” “You were always too honest for it.” The comment lingered in the air. Noah wondered if it carried a meaning beyond the drink itself.

Across the city, Leonardo was not having a good night. The bar was one of Nightvale's most exclusive — a dark, moody establishment where the city's elite came to make deals and drown their sorrows in hundred-dollar whiskey. Leonardo sat in a private booth at the back, a glass of scotch in his hand, his expression cold and distant. He was supposed to be meeting with a potential business partner, but the man was late, and Leonardo's patience was wearing thin. "Another drink, Mr. Ferri?"

The apartment was dark, except for the dim light coming from the street. Sasha dropped his jacket over the chair, his body still tense. He walked straight past the living room, went to the bar, and grabbed the frosted glass bottle with the strongest amber liquid he had. A Russian whiskey that burned all the way to the soul. He poured it into the glass without measuring. He drank it as if it were water. He felt the liquid burn his throat, but said nothing. It was better than what was burning inside him.

It didn’t matter what happened, what hell we went through, how absolutely fucking terrible I was; He was my constant. My mouth went dry, and I spun around, unlocking the bottom drawer of my desk for the bottle of imported golden wolven whiskey my father left after his death. Finn was still studying me, arching a brow when I held the bottle up by the neck with one hand and flashing two glasses in the other, “Humor me tonight?” “You know drunk you is dangerous,” not once did his eyes stray from mine, and my cheeks heated furiously. “Drunk me is who I need tonight.”