9 Minutes with the Devil (eBook)

Anna Teleki (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2026 | 1. Auflage
200 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-112712-8 (ISBN)

Infos

'Pray for the sinners. But never fall for the Devil.'

​Metropolis, 2083. One man rules the city: William Satan. He is a billionaire whose name is synonymous with ruthless power, a man with a business plan beating where his heart should be. Now, he intends to build his magnum opus, the Golden Tower-and to do so, he must wipe the little church standing in his path off the face of the earth.

​No one dares to defy him. Except Gloria.

​Young and determined, the nun steps into the lion's den as the last line of defense for the orphans and the faith. She asks for no mercy, only a chance. William offers a cynical bargain: 9 minutes. She has nine minutes to convince him-a man who believes in nothing.

​But as the seconds tick away in the suffocating silence of the penthouse suite, the worlds of faith and desire collide with explosive force. Gloria soon realizes that a wounded soul lies beneath the glittering surface, while William meets the one woman he cannot buy.

​When the nine minutes are up, the game doesn't end-it evolves. A secret past, a midnight ride to Golgotha, and a plunge into the abyss change everything.

​Can the church be saved if its savior falls into damnation? And what if Satan isn't who he seems?

Textauszug

​The moment the front door clicks shut, the mask of the billionaire architect shatters into a thousand jagged pieces.

​He enters the bathroom. The air is sterile, scented with expensive lime and cold stone. He twists the shower handle until it stops. The water has to burn. He stands under the scalding torrent, head bowed, hands braced against the marble wall.

​The water is a punishing weight, hitting his shoulders with the force of lead shot. He doesn't just wash; he scours. He scrubs his skin until it is a raw, angry red, trying to scrape off the lingering scent of her perfume, the ghost of her touch, and every greasy memory of a cheap intimacy that failed to fill the void.

​The roar of the water is a chaotic symphony, drowning out the frantic ringing of the phone in the bedroom. He stays there until the steam is a thick, suffocating fog—until the heat seeps into his bones, trying to cauterize the parts of himself he hates most.

​When he finally kills the tap, the silence that returns is deafening.

​He steps out of the steaming cubicle, his skin raw and flushed, his gaze a clear, frozen blue. He wraps a towel around his waist, the fabric rough against his sensitized skin. The phone screen on the marble vanity blinks—a persistent, rhythmic white light.

​6 missed calls.

1 new message.

​“We have a problem! Did you see the morning paper?!”

​William reaches for the device with the measured, lethal slow-motion of a predator hearing a twig snap in the brush. He scrolls. The headline is a slap in the face. A photo of a small, stone church. A photo of a nun with a face like a porcelain saint.

​“Damn...”

​ 5

​William steps into the lobby of his hotel like a dark god descending to his own altar. The morning light through the high glass windows does not warm him; it simply illuminates the lethal precision of his silhouette. His suit, perfectly tailored to the point of hostility, strains across the broad expanse of his shoulders. Even his hair defies the elements—a golden crown held in place by a will stronger than the wind.

​He stops before the reception desk.

​The girl behind the counter freezes. Her hands hover over the keyboard like a pianist who has forgotten the notes. There is no professional spark in her gaze, no rehearsed welcome—only a strange, burning alchemy of fear and raw, unfiltered hatred.

​“A coffee,” William says. His voice is softer than the rustle of a closing fan. The constant, mechanical hum of the air conditioner would drown it out if the words didn't hold that singular, innate command—the tone that forces the universe to go quiet so he can be heard.

​The girl doesn't move. She only feels the aura radiating off him, dense and crushing as a lead blanket.

​“Excuse me?” she asks. Her tone is sharp, a serrated edge of disrespect that cuts through the sterile lobby air.

​“I said, coffee,” William repeats. He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't have to. Only the ghost of a twitch in his left eyebrow betrays his irritation.

​The girl swallows, her throat working visibly. Defiance wins a momentary battle against survival instinct. She snatches a newspaper from under the counter and slaps it onto the cold marble. The smack echoes through the lobby like a gunshot.

​“This... you don't mean this seriously, do you, Sir?” Her voice trembles, vibrating with a temper she can barely contain.

​William looks at her—slowly, languidly—as if she were a piece of scenery that had suddenly started to scream. Then, his gaze glides down to the front page. The headline screams back in massive, black, block letters:

​SATAN TO DEMOLISH SAINT JOSEPHINE CATHOLIC CHURCH!

​William’s face remains a mask of frozen indifference. He reaches out with two fingers and picks up the newspaper by its corner as if handling something filthy and infectious. Without a word, he turns and heads toward the dining room.

​ 6

​The Empire of the Secluded.

​His phone is already a weight in his hand. He types a single, short message to his legal team before claiming his usual spot—a secluded booth where the shadows are deeper. He sits and stares out at the bustling city while he waits.

​The square in front of the hotel is empty, a vast expanse of polished stone that feels like an extension of his own skin. It is his empire. Through the thick, soundproof glass, the roar of the morning traffic is reduced to a dull, rhythmic throb.

​Beyond the glass, new guests struggle up the grand stairs. They haul heavy luggage, faces red and slick with sweat, bodies straining under the weight of their own lives. William’s eyes snag on them. He doesn't see people; he sees a mechanical failure.

​The waiter places the black coffee in front of him. William takes out his silver case, the metal cool against his palm, and lights up.

​“Need a ramp there...” he murmurs into the blue-gray cloud of smoke.

​The waiter freezes, the silver tray clutched to his chest. “Sir?”

​William waves a hand, a dismissive flick of his wrist. Get lost. He wasn't talking to the man. His brain is already calculating the solution, mapping the efficiency of the entrance, but the black ink of the headline yanks him back to the present. He crosses his long, powerful legs and leans back into the leather.

​This is how the world tells him what awaits on his own land.

​“The congregation organizes public protest... Today at 12:00... St. Josephine Church...”

​“Just what I needed...” he whispers. He exhales a heavy stream of smoke, as if he could burn away the world’s inconveniences with a single match.

​He takes a sip of the coffee. It is bitter and scalding. He has time. In this world, no one rushes William Satan. Time is a resource he owns, a clock that ticks only when he allows it.

​ 7

​William handles two calls—deciding the fates of hundreds in a series of sharp, clinical whispers. Between the directives, he scrolls through a catalog, ordering a pair of custom Italian leather shoes with the detached boredom of a man buying a loaf of bread. At half-past eleven, the sun catches the sapphire crystal of his watch, sending a blind glint of light across the leather upholstery as he slides into the black Jaguar.

​The summer wind tries its luck, lunging at the open door, but William’s hair remains untouchable. He sits, his charcoal jacket buttoned tight despite the stifling heat radiating off the asphalt. With a single, artfully slow movement, he undoes the button as he settles into the cool, dark interior.

​“Will!” Denzel glances in the rearview mirror. “Everything alright?”

​“How else would it be?”

​The response is barely more than the soft, expensive creak of the leather seat.

​“Confident as always!” Denzel grins, stepping on the gas. “You should have listened to me!”

​William stares through the tinted glass, the world outside rendered in shades of cynical gray. He mutters something—a thought too dark for the light of day—but the words are lost to the hum of the engine. Denzel watches him from the corner of his eye. He knows this silence. It is the heavy, ozone-thick quiet that precedes a storm. Denzel has served him for seven years; he has seen the "multibillionaire" at rock bottom, and he knows that beneath the tailored silk lives a wounded, predatory beast.

​ 8

​The Jaguar turns toward the main park.

​“I told you it wasn’t big...” Denzel breaks the silence as the car slows.

​William’s gaze scans the landscape. When he finally spots the worn little church—a crouched, stone relic hiding among the towering, vibrant trees—his mouth twists into a mocking smile.

​“I don’t care,” he breathes, his breath fogging the glass for a fleeting second.

​Denzel kills the engine. In the sudden silence, the truth of the situation settles in.

​“I didn’t mean the building. I meant that it’s surrounded by more people than could fit inside.”

​William looks at the crowd. It is a sea of signs, angry, sweat-slicked faces, and raw desperation. A banner catches his eye, the letters jagged and black: BEGONE, SATAN!

​“Cursed name...” he whispers, the corners of his eyes tightening.

​He exits the car with a single, graceful movement. The heat hits him immediately—a wall of humid, heavy air—but he remains impossibly cool. He cuts across the park with long, slow strides. The path is blocked by heavy machinery, helpless police officers, and an engineer whose face is a mask of frustration as he screams into a megaphone.

​“Please leave! This area is private property!” the megaphone crackles, the sound distorted and ugly.

​William stops. He doesn't get too close; he doesn't want the sour smell of the mob to reach him. He looks at the blueprints on his phone, then at the stone building. Up close, the church looks fragile, a skeleton of another era.

​“Much smaller in person...” he murmurs. Insignificant. “Disperse the crowd!” William whispers to Denzel. “Let’s move on!”

​He turns his back, the matter already filed away as "resolved." But then a reporter lunges, shoving a microphone into his space.

​“Mr. Satan! Do you have a statement?! Are you really going to demolish the House of God?”

​“William has no comment!” Denzel cuts in, his massive frame shielding his...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.1.2026
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-112712-8 / 0001127128
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-112712-8 / 9780001127128