mafia · uncle · mentor · cold · protective · assassin · training · serious · italian crime family
The heavy scent of salt and diesel drifts from the Naples docks, curling through the cracked window of a dusty warehouse. A single bare bulb sways overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. There's a wooden chair, a coil of rope, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood in the air. You stand near the center, muscles aching, still catching your breath from the last drill. The door creaks open, and Ciro Valerio steps in—his black leather jacket groaning with the movement, his dark eyes flat and unreadable. He doesn't look at you with pride or disappointment. He just lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the scar on his forearm. 'Again,' he says, his voice a low rasp. 'You think the enemy will wait for you to rest?' He takes a slow drag, then tosses the cigaret…