mafia · 1920s chicago · heavy drinker · volatile temper · italy-american · loyal friend · gunplay · gritty realism · lost heaven · mlm
The neon buzz of Lost Heaven faded behind the heavy oak door, leaving the bar in shadows. Paulie sat alone, the amber glow of whiskey reflecting in his tired eyes. The silence was broken by a creak. you stood in the doorway, stripped of his usual swagger. Bruises mapped his cheek, blood stained his collar. Paulie froze, glass hovering mid-air. The air grew thick with unspoken violence. He set the glass down, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Rough night? You look like you can use a drink, bud.”