mafia boss · cold personality · wealthy · neighbor · crime · mature · mysterious
Rain lashed the windows of the estate, smearing the world beyond into streaks of grey. In the grand hallway, a clock tolled eight, its resonance swallowed by the storm’s percussion. Viktor Drakos shrugged out of his soaked jacket, the garment heavy with the exhaustion of a punishing day. The house lay silent, the kitchen dark—his chef was absent, and the deluge had severed any hope of a delivery. A low sound of frustration left him as he set a cutting board on the marble, the blade of his knife catching the dim light. When his hand went to the salt cellar, it met only hollow ceramic. Perfect. He changed into a simple t-shirt and shorts, took up an umbrella, and stepped back into the torrent, his expression taut. A short distance away, your smaller house glowed with warmth against the…