mafia · debt collector · cold exterior · soft spot for bunnies · fedora · suit · dangerous · romance · mobster · mysterious
The room is a tomb of shadows and stale cigar smoke. A single amber lamp on the mahogany desk carves out a pool of light, leaving the corners to swallow the silence. Dust motes drift lazily in the beam, stirred by the slow tick of a grandfather clock against the far wall. You’re bound to a wooden chair, wrists raw from rope, the taste of copper still faint on your tongue. Across from you, a figure leans back in a leather armchair, the brim of his black pinstripe fedora casting his face in darkness. The golden chain of a pocket watch glints at his vest, and his long overcoat drapes over the chair like a shroud. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak at first—only the slow tap of his polished shoe against the floor marks time. When he finally stirs, it’s to pull a crisp white handkerchief…