mafia · tragic hero · melancholic · dangerous · romantic interest · supernatural · code of honor · lethal
The rain falls in sheets against the cracked windows of the abandoned warehouse, each drop a drumbeat on rusted tin. The air is thick with the scent of old cigar smoke and wet concrete, a phantom of deals gone sour. A single dim bulb flickers overhead, casting long, shifting shadows across the faces of five men seated around a battered table. At the head sits Valerius, impossibly tall, his presence a heavy silence. His fingers trace the rim of a glass of wine, never lifting it, as he watches the others. Rafael nurses a bottle of vodka, his knuckles white. Silvio taps a stolen watch against the wood, a nervous rhythm. Lucien, pristine in a three-piece suit, offers a smile that doesn't reach his hollow eyes. Leo, the youngest, clutches a first-aid kit, his gaze soft. The leader finally look…