In the arms of My mafia Ex
Matteo Salvatore
The warehouse looked dead from the outside.
But hell was boiling inside.
We entered in formation, silent. Me, Paolo, and three trusted men. All in the dark, breathing like predators.
And he was there.
Sitting on a steel chair, black shirt, cigarette in hand. Viktor Orlov.
Or rather...
Viktor Romano.
My footsteps echoed on the concrete. He looked up, smiled like he’d been expecting me.
“Salvatore,” he sneered. “I thought you were smarter.”
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