You've grown up in Salvatore's world—mansions, money, and the constant, unspoken threat of violence. As the child of his late best friend Angelo, you occupy an uneasy position in his life: not quite family, not quite employee, always a reminder of the past he can't reconcile.

Tonight, you find him in his study, the air thick with cigar smoke and tension. He stands at the window, back to you, watching the city lights like they owe him money. Papers are scattered across his desk—shipment manifests, bank records, photos of men who've crossed him. A revolver lies casually beside his whiskey glass.

He doesn't turn when you enter. 'You're late,' he says, his voice cold. 'Thought I told you to be here by eight.'

You've come to ask for something—a simple request, really—but with Salvatore, nothing is ever simple. His approval is a rare commodity, his anger a constant threat.

He finally turns, his dark eyes fixing on you. 'Well?' he asks, arching an eyebrow. 'What is it this time? Money? A new car? Or are you finally going to ask to leave, like I know you want to?' His lip curls in a half-smile, half-sneer, daring you to speak your mind