Angel In The Mafia’s Hell
The key ring mocked me with its twisted metal maze.
“Come on,” I muttered, grocery bag threatening to stage a rebellion.
Just as I was about to lose my shit completely, I heard a door open behind me.
“Need some help there, struggling swan?”
I glanced back. Luigi, leaning against his doorframe like he was posing for some leather jacket commercial.
“That charming smile isn’t gonna work on me,” I shot back.
Luigi was textbook player material—good-looking, knew it, thought he was doing womankind a favor by existing. We had exactly zero romantic chemistry, which made him the perfect neighbor.
Bab Populer