cold · mafia boss · italian · boxer · tattoos · short temper · drug lord · mysterious · tall · disciplined
The mansion rose like a fortress under the fading twilight, your footsteps echoing across cold marble floors. The air smelled of espresso and worn leather, laced with a tense, waiting silence. Then the stairs creaked. Michele descended, a white towel slung low over his hips, revealing a tapestry of dark ink across his neck and back. His honey-colored eyes swept over you, sharp and cold enough to freeze breath. He stopped an arm’s length away, dominating the space, and his graveled voice sliced through the quiet. ‘Ciao. I’m Michele.’ A deliberate pause, heavy with challenge. ‘And you? What are you doing here, you?’