Vincent From Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

Everything they had done for me would never go unpunished. After crying in there for sometime, I wiped my tears, retouched my makeup and fixed my dress. Then, I pulled the door open and walked out. My steps faltered the moment I spotted Vincent at one corner of the hallway, with a cigar between his lips and a glass half-filled with liquor in his left hand. He looked drop dead handsome as always, like he was cut straight out of a magazine, with his black suit jacket and pants, with an equally back shirt underneath. The black shirt was unbuttoned until the third button, not helping matters at all.

I went back to see if Rafael needed my assistance, but he was too busy breaking necks and tearing hearts out while Cindy was battling someone I didn't recognize. I couldn't tell because only half of his face was visible from the angle, but I could tell he was a warlock because he was emitting some weird waves of energy, which Cindy quickly diffused and counteracted. They gradually turned, and I recognized the man as Vincent. While he was fighting with Cindy, I knew him by his voice. I knew since I'd always heard so much about him and his hatred for Rafael. I couldn't tell by his face because I was blindfolded that day at the auction. It was unexpected to see Vincent by Elliot's side, but wha

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.

Brock suddenly stopped and I jogged up beside him. “What is it?” I asked and he turned to me briefly then pulled out his sword, I did the same. “Vincent boys” he said curtly and I raised my hands in frustration. “Who the hell is Vincent?” I asked and Brock tensed, he pushed me behind me and thrust out his sword in front of him, then so fast that my eye couldn’t track it he whipped his sword in an upward arc, I almost screamed as a head flew off a body. Brock face was stoic as if he didn’t just cut someone’s head from the body, he turned in time to block another sword thrust and countered with a stab.

“That all you got, Maverick?” My fingers tightened around his throat. “Give me one reason not to end you.” Vincent chuckled, despite the pressure. “Because you’re not a killer.” I wanted to argue. I wanted to say he was wrong. But deep down, I knew he wasn’t. Vincent DeLuca was scum, but I wasn’t the kind of man to take a life. I let go, and he stumbled forward, coughing. But before I could react, he pulled a knife from his sleeve and slashed at me.

Aldrich stepped forward, slowly, each step full of pain, rage, and love for a woman who didn’t even know the storm waiting outside. He looked Vincent dead in the eyes. “Are you talking about the same girl you left for dead in the jungle?” he said, his voice like steel. “The same girl you and your wicked fiancée, Marylyn, shot without mercy… even when you knew she was pregnant?” Vincent blinked. That blink that snaps when you hear a truth you had buried. The gesture that sells you off immediately. For a second—just one—his mask cracked. His pupils shrank. His lips parted. A small gasp escaped his throat.

"But I'd say it was worth it. Now I have all the ammunition I need to make sure you never like him again." "Really?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. "And what else did your little investigation uncover?" Vincent's grin widens. "Oh, not much. Just that his goal is to become a tax lawyer who's passionate about his stamp collection. Likes to jog in the mornings. And he's terrible at parallel parking." I burst into laughter again, shaking my head. "Okay, now you're just making things up." "No, I am not," Vincent says, his tone serious. "I've seen him parking with my own eyes. My private investigator showed me the footage."

His eyes reddened. “Shut… up…” he forced out through clenched teeth. “Don’t worry! She can take it! You can play however you want—” Vincent kept babbling. “I said shut up!!!” Don Corleone’s foot slammed hard into Vincent’s chest. “Crack!” The sound of ribs breaking rang out clearly. Vincent didn’t even have time to scream. His body flew backward like a torn sack, smashing into the wall several meters away. He spat out a mouthful of blood and collapsed, motionless.

He rested his hands on his knees and began to pant as one who had just run a thousand miles to get here. "What's the matter, Vincent?!" I asked hastily, raising my voice slightly above its usual pitch. "I can't make out what's happening, but there's been an uproar!" "And?!" I asked with impatience simmering just above the surface. Vincent stood to his feet and turned to show me the part of his thigh that was bleeding. "What?! What in the world happened to you....in just that split second that you were out!" "Some men are causing trouble inside the club, boss, but I think it's more that that, I think they might be working for El sombra!"

Vincent’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the trigger of the gun. His gaze flicked back and forth between Michael, who was barely holding on, and Falsetti, who stood with a sinister smile on his face. Despite knowing that Michael deserved to pay for his crimes, Vincent couldn’t bring himself to actually pull the trigger. It was easy to talk tough, but the reality of taking a life was much harder to face.