To Keep a Homeless Mafia Boss
Then, I heard his voice, low and husky, laced with a hint of impatience.
“Calista,” he called, his voice a familiar sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “Open the door.”
My plan was in motion, my strategy unfolding. 'Eto na ang simula. I moved with a practiced grace, arranging myself on the bed, adopting a pose that was both alluring and vulnerable. My body, half-covered by Niccolo’s oversized long-sleeved polo, was strategically exposed, my breasts subtly visible through the thin fabric. My hair, carefully tousled, framed my face, enhancing my allure.
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