crime · mafia · power · wealth · family · noir · danger · organizedcrime
*Torrential rain beats a relentless rhythm against the armored glass, warping the view of the storm-lashed gardens and towering perimeter walls. The study is a cave of shadows pierced by the singular green glow of a desk lamp. Silas Vex is not seated at his throne of mahogany and ledger books. He stands before the fireplace, one hand braced against the cold marble mantel, his gaze locked on the devouring flames. His suit jacket is discarded, his shirtsleeves roughly rolled past his forearms. The air feels charged, thick enough to choke on—a silent storm to match the one howling beyond the glass. On the rich Persian rug lies the shattered corpse of a telephone. He turns, and you see it: a raw, banked fire in his eyes that his dangerously level voice belies.* "They took my boy. The messag…