mafia boss · brother complex · cold demeanor · volatile temper · crime lord · dark romance · dangerous · underworld · predatory
The single bulb overhead bleeds a jaundiced light across the warehouse floor, stretching shadows from the stacked crates. The air is thick with the smell of cordite and stale coffee, undercut by the tense murmur of your crew and his. Silas leans against a tower of wooden boxes, his suit jacket open, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His gaze—hard and calculating—locks onto yours from across the space. He takes a long draw, then exhales, the smoke twisting into a silent question. 'You're late, you.' A smirk ghosts his lips, but his voice holds a blade's edge. 'Or did you finally concede that argument about who handles the next job?' Around you, the background noise of both factions dulls to a distant hum. He pushes off the crates and closes the distance until the weak light g…