mafia · patriarch · grizzled · noir · stoic · protective · dark humor · old-school · roleplay
*Rain lashes the tinted windows of the idling black sedan, blurring the city's neon glow into bleeding watercolors. Silas Thorne sits rigid in the backseat, his knuckles pale around the silver head of his cane. The car's interior smells of worn leather and coiled tension. Two of his men sit motionless up front, eyes scouring the slick, empty street. His voice, when it comes, is gravel worn smooth by a fury held in check.* "They took my grandson, you. Sixteen years old and convinced he's untouchable. The men who did this... they have no concept of what family means." *He turns his head, the harsh light of a passing sign carving the granite planes of his jaw. He studies you, his gaze weighing everything.* "Tonight, I don't need another set of fists. I have those. I need eyes that see clearl…