𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐌 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃 ♫
In which
a homeless street musician
falls for a bloodthirsty mafia don
with a dark and deadly secret
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❦ RELEASING CHAPTERS EVERY OTHER WEEK ❦
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TWO MONTHS AGO
EVERYTHING IS NOT going to be okay.
"You need to get the fuck out. Now!"
I'm frozen.
My shoes glued to the living room floor as my body grows cold, watching Alejandro run around the apartment as he fills his backpack with random items and belongings—including a Glock I didn't know he had; apparently taped under the sofa this whole time.
Shaking my head, my eyes continue following the jittery lunatic in front of me.
Over the past few weeks, the Akovas have made more threats, their men breaking Alejandro's arm, closely following me everywhere I go and making sure that I know that they're around, by either whistling loudly or flashing the same tattoo all of Akova's soldiers have—a king cobra wrapped around a dagger, looking as though it's ready to strike; its eyes bright red and fangs long and sharp.
And yesterday, they even went so far as leaving someone's chopped fingers and tongue on our doorstep—a small note, folded beside the body parts and a gold, bloody Rolex, that read 'tick-tock'.
As if the numbers on a ticking time bomb are close to hitting zero, I feel more and more uneasy about leaving the apartment. Not that I really have a reason to—with no job that expects me anymore, or friends and family that miss me. And with technology growing more advanced and society shifting to a more demanding, antisocial way of living, groceries, fast food, and other items can be delivered in a matter of minutes.
And if I really wanted to, I could just create a social media account and become one of those TikTok singers—gaining a following, performing and releasing some original songs, and maybe even making a career out of it.
But let's be realistic, though.
Although the hermit-esque fantasy is appealing, none of that can actually happen because online delivery is expensive, and, the thought of having my identity thrusted into the cyber spotlight—no matter how talented I think I am—makes my stomach hurt.
Anyone can track you down once your name is on the internet, even if your social media accounts are set to private.
And although the Akovas and their men know who we are and our constant whereabouts, I don't want anyone else getting any dark and twisted ideas—my mind immediately going to the dangers and horror stories of the deep, Dark Web; hushed rumors of the Albanian mafia, along with many others, often dipping their toes into the disgusting, murky waters of soul smuggling.
