My house is incredible. The front door is red with a gold knock. Black and white checkered floor. A lacquered wooden staircase and a gleaming chandelier. However, I always wonder, If I peel off the wallpaper on the wall, there will be red blood? Gentle splashes would drip down the pool onto the marble floor if this world were as transparent as glass.I stare at the TV in the kitchen corner, barely processing the newscaster's voice, but when the word murder crosses her ruby lips, it echoes in my mind. My throat caught as the back of my hand moved, followed by my bracelet. While my house, my life, is built on piles of dirty money, I can always say I'm not contributing to the balance. Not until earlier this ten years, that is. The blood is on my hands, and guilt watches over me as I sleep.It has always controlled me, and now it's returning to me when I know exactly who I'm dealing with.He's cosa nostra, blood is always in his way, and after the guy in Bronx—who's making headlines for
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