I have to take a deep breath after reading that. Home. For a long time, I only had a few places I considered home and two of which burned down. The penthouse in Manhattan is the only one left, but the one in Queens, which isn't even mine, feels like home now. After all, Malia and Gianna are in there.
🖤🖤🖤
I arrive outside a bungalow in a shady part of Queens where most of the street lights don't work. I pull my coat tighter on me, the chilly evening not something I particularly like. A couple of my men stand outside, two of my trusted ones–Dario and Emiliano–they give me a respectful nod as I walk past them and enter the small house. The man, whose name is Fish–what a stupid name–is tied up on a dining chair in the living room, already banged up. Salvatore, who's standing off to the side, did a number on him.
