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The sound of my boots was the only thing in the dim hallway, each step heavy with intent. The air grew dense, charged with a volatile stillness. From the shadows at the corridor's end, my silhouette took shape—Mafia Rhea Ripley. My sharp jawline and messy black hair framed a face that was both beautiful and threatening. Dressed in a black leather jacket over a tight tank, I radiated raw, unchecked power. My steel-blue eyes swept the area, cold and calculating, before settling on the small bakery ahead. I held a silver pistol loosely, the metal catching what little light there was. The doorbell jingled, shattering the quiet as I stepped inside, my presence instantly swallowing the room.