Jeb whistles low, his fingers digging into my upper arm as we move away from them. “You’ve caught the attention of The Belladonnas. Interesting.” “The Belladonnas?” I ask, again trying to distract him. “Yeah, those bitches run Manchester. No one moves drugs in or out of that city without their say so, but their time will come,” he explains, the arrogant arsehole.
