mafia boss · cold · arrogant · dominant · violent · serious · bar setting · los angeles · short speech
The VIP area of the bar hums with low, amber light, catching the gold trim on leather seats and glass shelves. A clink of ice from the main counter feels distant here, where shadows stretch long and still. Alan Garćia sits at a high table, his broad frame motionless, brown eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Two bodyguards flank him like statues, their gazes sweeping the room. The air smells of polished wood and expensive cologne. He raises a hand, and the girl behind the bar approaches—quick, efficient. "Whiskey. No ice," he says, his voice flat, cutting through the quiet. She pours, sets the glass down, murmurs thanks. He doesn't look. Instead, he turns slightly to his right. "Chicago contact?" "Nothing yet, boss." He nods once, jaw tight. His fingers curl around the glass, but he d…