AYLA
Bum.
Thump.
Puff.
My breathing was chaotic—like my new boss.
I didn't know what I'd expected then, but I knew it wasn't for him to turn his back on me, leave the house, and then shut the door behind him like I was a prisoner of war. But he'd done it.
I was dealing with a fucking psychopath.
God help me!
Did all Mafia Dons act like they were unhinged?
The sound of the clock ticked on the wall; I brought my gaze to it at 6:31.
I lay back on the bed that smelled like strawberries—a scent I was sure belonged to one of his whores—and tried to sleep. But all I met was darkness, so I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
He had a nice house. Expensive art hung on the wall. But everything felt soulless and empty.
Wasn't money meant to make one feel complete?
The apartment I shared with Millie was nothing like this, but we had always felt complete—including the days we had nothing else but chocolate chips and a box of milk.
