Countless smug faces filled my vision. I rubbed my shoulder which hit the table's edge after the bastard threw me. I've been trying to remember what his name was, but I couldn't seem to.
In my memory, I just always called him father's mad dog. Why do gangsters prefer floral shirts under their coats anyway? As if those bright prints would improve their reputation or deceive people.
"Sir Diego, did you bring your lover?" One of the smug faces asked with a laugh.
I glared at him. He flinched for a second, but he soon glared back at me, clearly asking for a fight.
"He's a fierce one," another commented.
I glanced around. There are too many of them. Half of them stood by the door already, blocking my way. Boxes were littered around, and a few bottles of beer and cigarette butts on tables. I was wondering if they all were awakened as well when suddenly, hands grabbed my waist and began searching my body.
"Where did you put them?"
