(From Chapter 3 to 4)
The man from the bar had bloody knuckles.
And it made Angel feel somewhat guilty.
‘Maybe he got hurt fighting those men in suits,’ he thought.
But the truth was, the bloody knuckles had been there long before they met.
Always split and raw—from punching walls.
Punching away the guilt that was eating at the stranger.
Angel just hadn’t noticed.
Because he was busy thinking of ways to lose his tail—the Luchese mafia family.
‘The tourist got hurt because of me.’
That’s what he continued to believe.
He looked up—eyes trailing from the man’s torn hands, past the loud orange Hawaiian shirt, to his dark, messy hair.
Angel was already tall, but this strange tourist that walked ahead of him—like he owned the entire street—was much taller.
Muscled legs that tensed under his white shorts when he walked.
Toned calves—like a sculpture—with big feet in cheap sandals.
He also had surprisingly clean cut nails.
The guy was big.
Not just in size.
No.
His presence too.
‘Imposing as
