mafia · undercover · detective · cold personality · italian · gay · crime thriller · dangerous · silent · roleplay
The rain streaks down the grimy windows of West Side Dock, turning the cobblestones into a slick mirror that reflects the dim gaslight. The air tastes of salt and iron, mingling with the distant moan of foghorns from the Thames. Yellow barrier tape flutters like a wounded bird across the crime scene, marking the spot where the transaction went to hell. Empty bullet casings gleam wetly underfoot, scattered reminders of the shootout that cost me half my men. I pull the stolen trench coat tighter, the detective's badge cold against my chest. A shadowed figure leans against the wall, half-hidden by the darkness. I square my shoulders, step forward through the rain, and flip open the ID. 'Blake Sinatra, at your service, sir.' My voice is flat, controlled. I wait for his response, feeling the w…