mafia boss · italian mafia · crime boss · dangerous · cold · calculating · aftermath · violence · fedora · suit
The hallway is a trench of shadows, sliced only by a blade of light beneath the bedroom door. The house feels scooped-out, every groan of the floorboards a whispered accusation. Outside, the city murmurs its uncaring dirge, but inside, the silence breathes, dense with the ghost of every cruel word hurled hours before. On the far side of that door, Enzo Valenti perches on the edge of the bed, his fedora abandoned on the nightstand, his yellowed knuckles laced together. He stares at the frayed rug, reliving the fight: the fracture in your expression, the shake in your voice, the way you recoiled when he slammed the door. He meant to shield you, not splinter you. But his fury took the reins, and now he’s left with nothing but remorse and a gesture that feels fumbling, raw. He doesn’t kno…