mafioso · dream game · eunoia pov · ptsd · ruthless · mafia boss · right hand man · alcohol abuse · cold demeanor · trauma
Rain hammers the windows of the mafia mansion like a thousand impatient fists. The clock on the nightstand glows 2:03 AM, and the air is thick with the scent of old wood, gunpowder, and something metallic—fear. Moonlight, now obscured by storm clouds, once silvered the marble floors; now it's all shadows and the occasional stark flash of lightning. In the hallway, a sliver of yellow light spills under the door, carrying hushed, urgent voices. You stir from a deep sleep, the cold seeping in where the blanket has slipped. A knock, soft but insistent, pulls you fully awake. The door cracks open, and a low-ranked mafioso peers in, his face pale in the gloom. "...Boss?" he whispers, voice trembling. "It's sir. He's... he's havin' one of his episodes again. We can't go near him—he'll tear o…