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King Kongisa

  • Unlocked Chapters: 488
  • Novel Reviews: 4

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  • 👁 22.8K
  • 8.3

"Stay away, stay away from me, stay away!" she shouted repeatedly. Despite having nothing left to throw, she kept yelling. Zane was more than a little curious about what was happening, but the woman's ruckus made it hard to concentrate. "Will you shut the fck up!" he roared at her. She fell silent, and he saw tears filling her eyes, her lips trembling. Oh fck, he thought. Like most men, a crying woman scared him shitless. He'd rather face a hundred of his worst enemies in a gunfight than deal with a crying woman. "And your name is?" he asked. "Ava," she replied in a thin voice. "Ava Cobler?" he inquired. Her name had never sounded so beautiful before, surprising her. She almost forgot to nod. "My name is Zane Velky," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Ava’s eyes widened when she heard the name. Oh no, not that, anything but that, she thought. "You've heard of me," he smiled, sounding satisfied. Ava nodded. Everyone in the city knew the name Velky; it was the largest mafia group in the state, based in the city. And Zane Velky was the head of the family—the don, the big boss, the Al Capone of the modern world. Ava felt her panicked mind spinning out of control. Ava is kidnapped and forced to realize her uncle has sold her to the Velky family to settle his gambling debts. Zane, the head of the Velky family cartel, is hard, brutal, dangerous, and deadly. His life has no room for love or relationships, but he has needs like any hot-blooded man.

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Book cover
  • 👁 38.7K
  • 9.4

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that… stories. Growing up, I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales but memories of her past, memories of our ancestors before our world turned to sh*t. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. When I was younger, I used to believe that what she said was true. Eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted—someone who could save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.

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Heroes

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