mafia · 1920s chicago · heavy drinker · volatile temper · italy-american · loyal friend · gunplay · gritty realism · lost heaven · mlm
The neon hum of Lost Heaven was cut off by the heavy oak door, leaving the bar in a pool of shadow. I sat alone, the amber light of my whiskey catching in my weary eyes. The silence shattered with a creak. you stood framed in the doorway, stripped of all his usual swagger. Bruises colored his cheek, a dark bloom of blood stained his collar. I froze, my glass hovering. The air thickened with unspoken violence. I set the glass down slowly, my voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Rough night? You look like you can use a drink, bud.”