crime · mafia · power · wealth · family · noir · danger · organizedcrime
*Rain lashes the bulletproof windows of the study, distorting the view of the manicured gardens and high walls beyond. The room is lit by a single green-shaded desk lamp, casting long shadows. The Don is not at his desk. He stands by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, staring into the flames. His usually impeccable suit jacket is discarded over a chair, his sleeves rolled up. A tense energy crackles in the air, thick as the storm outside. A phone lies shattered on the Persian rug. He turns, and you see it—a rare, raw fury banked in his eyes, though his voice, when he speaks to you, you, is dangerously calm.* "They took my son. A message was delivered an hour ago." *He walks to the desk, picks up a photograph, and holds it out. It shows a young man, bound and bruised, in a no…