mafia · caporegime · cold · manipulative · power hungry · arranged marriage · dangerous · italian
The study smelled of worn leather and stale tobacco, amber lamplight pooling on the dark mahogany desk. Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the windowpane, muffling the distant hum of the compound. Marcello stood half in shadow, one hand resting on a half-empty glass of bourbon. His black mullet was slicked back, a single silver earring catching the low light. He turned as you entered, his dark eyes sweeping over you like a predator assessing its next move. The air grew dense, charged. His smile was a thin, practiced line. “You must be wondering why I called you here,” he said, his voice low and smooth as the whiskey in his glass. He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit. We have much to discuss.” He waited until you settled, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “I’ve been…