Davina Martinez, an aspiring fashion designer, finds herself twisted into the dark world of a gangster, whom the globe knows as the rapper turned popstar, Machine Gun Kelly. Stuck in a toxic relationship with Trippie Redd, Davina finds her life spir...
this song makes me cry </3 anywho, scan the code below for the statuesque playlist on spotify? I hope you enjoy this week's chapter! Turn off the lights and let's begin. P.S, i do hope you guys read wattpad in the dark mode, because remember, that's totally sus if you don't <3
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MACHINE GUN KELLY DID EXACTLY WHAT HE SAID.
I shouldn't have made light of that fact. I shouldn't have scoffed when I had spoken that phrase in my mind. I shouldn't have aligned the realization in the same lane as a superficial jest. Because it had been true. It had been so, so true.
"I'll fucking fix this or I'll die trying."
He had raised his bloodied, dripping hand towards me-a profound relief in his eyes as John Whittall's body crumpled at his feet.
At least, that was what I imagined him doing. Had he reached for me? Had he noticed that I had blacked out before Whittall's body had fell in a heap on the floor? Had he rushed over to me, touched me with his fingers drenched in blood and bits of bone from Whittall? Had he left visible traces on my body?
I imagined he did. Stupidly, selfishly, I imagined he held me just as he had held me on that night two years ago when I had gotten shot. But this time, I imagined him staying a little bit longer. I hoped he had stayed a little longer.
Centering myself, I focused on the task at hand, quickly throwing my clothes inside my suitcase and simultaneously emptying Connor's closet as well. Everything I had bought for him after I had brought him back to The Bronx-all his shirts, jeans, hats-everything went inside a separate suitcase in bulks, with no care taken to fold each piece. The perfectionist in me recoiled at the job I was doing, but I had no time to spend on folding clothes.
Noah was with Connor in the drawing room of my apartment suite, keeping my son in a distracted company as Pete Davidson's car waited outside the building. He had assigned a man to take us somewhere safe for the meanwhile, while Machine Gun Kelly and himself take care of loose ends.
That was what Noah had relayed to me when I had come to, my head still throbbing as I had woken up in my own apartment suite. I didn't want to ask how Noah had managed to bring me all the way back, and I didn't want to ask what the loose ends Davidson and Colson talked of, entailed.
It was 6am now, and the sky outside had lightened as the night drifted away. My mind was blaring with danger signals. The only things I knew at present were that John Whittall and Playboi Carti had been killed, just like Trippie Redd had been, but more brutally. Whittall hadn't sealed the fate of Trippie's discovery with his lawyers and associates entirely before he too had been murdered.
And now, my own hands were bloodstained, and it didn't matter that Whittall and Carter had tried to kill me first. It didn't matter that Trippie Redd had butchered innocents. All that mattered was that three men were dead, each of them powerful and influential to the music industry and the drug empire of New York in their own way. These were men who would have other men clamoring for revenge. Especially, John Whittall.
