J͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞n͟͟͟͞͞͞i͟͟͟͞͞͞e͟͟͟͞͞͞.
To many, I am a myth.
The 'Kiss of Death', a hired killer, revered by some of the greatest criminal organisations in the world. Trained by the bratva themselves, without conscience, without mercy.
The per...
Flipping open the top of my cigarette packet, I take one out, placing it between my lips.
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(His outfit ^)
I sit behind the very desk my father used to sit at, the desk Eunwoo sat at until just two weeks ago.
I'm the capo of New York.
These are dangerous times though. I'm keeping my inner circle tight, only dealing directly with the three guys in this room.
Namjoom is pacing in front of my desk, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly while wearing a hole in the floorboards.
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Yoongi is leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl fixed on his face.
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Jimin is sitting on one of the sofas, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other as he stares blankly at the opposite wall. His sleeves are rolled up, his forearms and the material of his white shirt painted in blood. The telltale splatter of a slit throat sprayed across his neck.
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