T Y L E R
"What is it?" I shoved both hands into the pockets of my jacket and stared grumpily at the guy wearing black outfits in front of me. He looked like a grim reaper wearing a black shirt, a pair of black pants, and topped it up with a black leather jacket.
Mario Aiello, the Italian guy who has been ordering me these past two days, stood and walked towards me. He handed me a package and gave me a warning look. One that told me not to lose it no matter what, like I needed a warning after what he has put me through. "848 Washington Street." I took the package and shoved it into my jacket's inside pocket. "I'll text you the details. Now go." He waved one hand, telling me to go away, while the other hand reached out for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
