Angel

The Mafia Next Door Won't Let Me Leave

Mafia underboss. Neighbor. Obsession. Your new neighbor throws parties that shake the walls—bass thumping, laughter spilling into the hall, the whole floor smelling of expensive whiskey. You've complained twice. He only smiled, slow and dangerous, and said, "Loud is good. Means you're alive." Now you're leaving. Boxes stacked, lease terminated, a moving truck booked for dawn. And suddenly the party stops. The music dies. The silence is worse. He's at your door, leaning against the frame like he owns it—because he does. His voice drops to a velvet growl. "You're not going anywhere." He's not asking. He's daring you to run. The question is: do you slam the door, or step closer?