The Mafia King's Trophy
“Well, shit. That explains the suicidal plea. How bad was it, exactly?”
“I don’t fucking know, I’ve been to pussy to listen to all of them,” I groan. “Fuck, can you picture it? Me, Markus Dragonetti, actually confessing feelings through drunk texts and goddamn voice notes at three in the morning.”
Matteo whistles low, eyes widening further. “Voice notes? Holy shit, you didn’t just drunk text—you drunk confessed. You’re completely fucked, cousin.”
“Yeah, no shit,” I grunt bitterly, lifting my head to glare at him. “You can see why the execution sounded appealing, can’t you?”
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