Pakaian Mafia Novels & Stories

She was wearing a sweet smile on her lips, which I returned gratefully. She made me choose on a rack of dresses, but I told her she can do it for me. After I tried on almost the whole boutique and gave Ace his private fashion show, he finally settled on light blue rugged jeans, a black crop top, a white trench coat, and ankle boots. The man has his ways to give people a heart attack. The girl who assisted me nearly faint when Ace told her he’d buy all the clothes I tried on. We won’t make him poor, even if he buys all the clothes in this shop. He’s in the mafia, for crying out loud!

as he saw the rage bewildered inside me. Eagles are one of the most nagging Russian mafias I have ever came across, they are distinguished traffickers of teenage girls and ladies around the age of twenties , I allowed them to deal with drugs without being arrested from Italian police, I complied with their demands hoping that they'll shut out their human trafficking business, exactly the thing which I despise the most is human trafficking and that too of teenage girls. I clenched my jaws and let out an audible sigh as I thought about her... Alessa.

And why? Hastily, I went back to the media room and in there, I typed the name of Iopata Bratva in my cellphone Google search. A number of results were listed immediately. I checked on each of them with determination and great attention, but found no concrete information about the name other than it is a mafia organization hunted by the Russian and American police since the sixties. A mafia... The word lingered on my head over and over again. Mafia. Could it be that the Fancy Pants Club is a member of the mafia? Could it be that it works underground alongside it? Or much worse, could it be that the Fancy Pants Club is the mafia itself in disguise?

I pushed her to the brink. “Boss, you good with that?” Deron asks, snapping my focus back to the present. I look around the dark SUV as my inner circle, Deron, Stephon, Kris, and Max, are preparing to help orchestrate a raid on a meatpacking plant. It’s one of many business fronts for the Scarfo mafia. This one, in particular, is run by Vinnie and his crew. It took a little digging, but Max managed to track the bastard down with ease.

I stayed perfectly still, listening for any sound, any voice, anything that could tell me where I was. I heard murmurs, laughter, and then People's footsteps. I waited for someone to open the back doors. I waited... And waited far too long. Finally, the doors swung open. The Russian man stood there beside the famiglia soldier. Behind them was Luca... standing next to a man I didn't know. Yet somehow... He looked familiar. He was mafia. There was no question about that. There was something in the way he held himself, the way he stood, the way he looked at me... as though he belonged at the very top of the world and I was nothing more than dirt beneath his shoes.

He didn't catch me unlike last time but yet I felt so scared because he was a freaking mafia boss which meant that he could do literally anything to me and that meant killing me in one go I couldn't bear it just the thought of death terrified me and yet I rotlsnr escape from this place that wasn't even sure if I would ever come out alive and I didn't even know what to do next but one thing was for sure, I was going to keep my mouth shut bro increase my chances of living. " Mia," I suddenly heard shooting me back to reality. I turned to see moa dressed in her normal maid's attire with her hair ties up into a pony tail. She looked all vibrant this morning with a charming smile that I wondered

I almost ran out of oxygen when I was with them, it was as if they had emptied it without leaving me to die. I went into my room to clean myself before the sun went down. The maid said that all the clothes for me were available in the wardrobe and I was free to choose whatever I wanted. After I checked what the clothing models were, my eyes wanted to fall out to see a row of sleeveless mini-dresses. There are no ordinary clothes such as T-shirts and trousers. This is too feminine when dealing with a mafia-like him. I stood in front of the wardrobe with my body wrapped in a towel, choosing which dress was suitable to wear at night.

Alisa had worried for two years, asking me why I didn't move somewhere more comfortable, or get better clothes or at least refurbish the ratty apartment I lived in. I told her I didn't mind it and I wasn't lying. I really didn't. In the mafia, I was trained to live on less. For two whole years, I wore the same pair of clothes. Black jeans, torn and ragged with age and a black top. I performed all my assignments in them. No matter how much I washed them, I could always smell the heavy stench of blood. It lived around me, surrounded me like a halo. A constant reminder of who I was and the work I had done. The work I did.

A note beneath the box, in handwriting I hadn't seen before but recognised immediately — controlled, minimal, exactly as you'd expect. Tonight. Seven o'clock. Wear this. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the dress for a long time. No explanation. No context. Just the dress and the earrings and the time, the way you'd brief someone on an assignment rather than invite them somewhere. I found Mara at breakfast. "Where are we going?" I asked. She looked up from the counter. "He hasn't told you?" "He left a note with a dress." She made that small sound — not quite a laugh, something gentler. "A charity gala. In the city. He attends every year — it's one of his public appearances. Importa