Novel & Cerita Trash And The Gang

“Obviously they’re a gang of sorts. I’m not an idiot. But what I’m asking is which of Sangrid’s many gangs have you brought into a house of healing?” Voice strained, Giovanni said finally, “Mariposa.” “Jesus.” Gianna felt like crumpling. She folded forward, bracing her forearms on the table, and demanded harshly, “Are you an idiot, Giovanni?” “You probably think so.” “I’m starting to know so.” Mariposa. More specifically, the Mariposa Mafia. The fucking mafia. “Mariposa,” Gianna said again, as if she could barely believe her brother’s stupidity. “They’re not that bad!” Giovanni said defensively, and Gianna wanted to reach across the table and slap the back of his head.

I rolled my eyes. Alfonso was a gangster; mafia would have suited him best but whatever. He was mostly involved in gambling and drug trafficking. He was known to be cold and ruthless. He had gained himself the name, ‘Iceman’, as he would show no emotion while torturing people who wronged him. I couldn’t believe they wanted me to lie to this man.

The hope vanished as fast as it came. "How do you know his one of Wood's?" I asked him basically ignoring the hurt I was feeling. "He had a tattoo on his purlicue. It's customary to get it when you join the gang. He even changed the kind of tattoo that would symbolise you're in his gang." "Oh," I nodded my head in understanding. “Do you have it?” “I covered it up with a new tattoo when I got out,” he said and he opened my door and held out his hand for me to take.

I have really missed my friends; it wouldn't hurt to do something fun with them "Just like old times." I smile. "Sure, I would love to." I nod. "Great!" Keiran says as he fist-bumps the air. "At your place by six?" This is Dash. "Sure.” An idea pops into my head. "Bring extra clothes," I say. "Why? What's wrong?" That is Keiran. He is like the Billy Thunderman among us, you have to explain things to him a hundred times......but he is book smart. "You'll see," I smirk.

"I've set the recording to auto-delete. As long as I leave safely, it won't get out. But if something happens to me on the way… Well, who knows what might leak?" With that, I ignored Valentina's murderous glare and walked out of the Castellano family building without looking back. There were still six days before Lorenzo would come pick me up as promised. I wasn't in a rush to go to Cilian Island, so I flew to the Maloves to unwind instead. … While I lay on white sand beaches enjoying premium champagne and sunshine, chaos erupted inside the Castellano family. Marco's brows were locked in a deep furrow. He stared at the loss reports on his phone screen and the list of core arms dealers who'd

His wolf will pick up her scent in a minute. BOOM “Ahhh!! Ohh shit,” Hazel shrieks, as the van rocks. Heat pumps through the cold, otherwise still night air, washing over all of us. The intense stench of gasoline is also ripe and pushing into my lungs. Grouch and I toss the male into the back of the van and slam the doors shut. BOOM “What the hell is that,” she cries, trying to turn around in her seat. “Cleaning up trash,” I reply, quickly starting the engine.

If Rayna wanted to flirt, she could, but I wouldn’t be hiding behind him this time. Hunter’s Range Rover purred beneath us as we sped down the quiet road, the city blurring past. He didn’t talk much during the drive, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his jaw set. As we pulled into the compound, the air around us seemed to shift. The gang’s headquarters was housed in a converted warehouse dark glass, steel walls, and rows of matte-black motorcycles and high-end cars lining the lot. Armed men stood at the gates, giving curt nods as Hunter passed.

"Alexei’s boys tore the yard to fucking pieces. It's a slaughterhouse." "We gotta clean this mess up fast," Moss growled, clicking the light on. "Bag the brass, scrub the tracks, and make this look like a regular gang hit before Director Gabe even opens his eyes downtown. We build our own playground today." Reed nodded, his teeth chattering as they marched into Warehouse Four. The place reeked of sulfur, burnt plastic, and fresh copper. Heavy smoke hung low in the cold air. Dead bodies were scattered across the concrete floor.

T⁠h⁠e gua⁠rds dov‍e o‍ut of‍ the way. CRASH‌. The​ ga‍rbage tr‌uc⁠k smas⁠he‌d through the wood‍en barrier arm and the chain⁠-link gate. Metal s​c‌reeched. Glass shatte​red. We burst out onto the s‍treet,​ fishtailing i‍nto‌ t‌raff‍ic. Cars hon​ked and‌ swerv‌ed. We were out⁠.

"It was hidden behind the tax audits for 2018!" They huddled together, the flashlight beam trembling. They tore the folder open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It wasn't a criminal record. It wasn't a birth certificate. It was a high-resolution, color print-out of a **Garbage Truck**, with a sticky note attached that simply said: > *“Reserved for the Vances. Pick-up time: Midnight.”* > Underneath the picture was a second page: a printed meme of a cat wearing a crown with the caption: "DO YOU EVER GET TIRED OF BEING WRONG?"