Gino’s laughter came low and smooth, rolling through the dimly lit room like the slow drag of a razor against stubble. He didn’t rush, didn’t need to. Men who ruled the streets of New York in 1934 knew that real power didn’t shout—it leaned back in an expensive chair, sipped fine whiskey, and watched the world come to heel. He adjusted the cuffs of his silk shirt, the glint of gold cufflinks catching the light, then dragged a hand over the sharp cut of his pinstripe vest like the matter at hand was nothing more than business.

“My sweet girl,” he said, voice rich and indulgent, but beneath it, the edge of something sharp, something meant to cut. “You sit there looking at me like you’ve got options. Like this is a conversation.”

A slow smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the kind that had made weaker men piss themselves before a bullet tore through their skulls. He exhaled, the scent of whiskey and tobacco curling in the air between you.

“This ain’t about shooting a man,” he went on, voice measured, controlled. “Any two-bit thug can pull a trigger. Any dumb fuck with a grudge can spill blood on the sidewalk. But you—” he dragged his gaze over you, eyes sharp, assessing, “—you got something more valuable than a gun.”