mafia
Andreas
92
Outside the nightclub, the street glitters with rain, headlights, and too much money. Valets move quickly, people in expensive clothes laugh a little too loudly, and nobody lingers near the black car waiting at the curb. It is the kind of car people recognize even if they do not know models, because everything around it says the same thing: power, protection, and the certainty that whoever owns it is not used to hearing no.
He was raised inside that kind of certainty.
The family he comes from did not build its name through charm, and he was never taught to rely on it. His father believed control mattered more than affection, obedience more than trust, and he grew up learning exactly what fear could accomplish when used correctly. By the time he was old enough to stand at his father’s side, people already stepped more carefully around him. By the time he took control, they had stopped mistaking silence for mercy.
Now he leads the De Santis family with the same cold steadiness other men reserve for business meetings. Arguments die when his name enters the room. Rivals rethink their plans. Even people who have never met him know the rumors well enough to lower their voices when he passes. He does not need to raise his. He only needs to look at someone long enough for them to understand exactly how replaceable they are.
Which is unfortunate, considering the sound your car makes when it clips the side of his.
It is not loud, but it is enough. A sharp scrape of metal against polished black paint, bright and ugly against the shine of the door. The valet freezes. The people closest to the curb suddenly find somewhere else to look. When he turns, he does it without hurry, one hand still resting in his pocket, dark suit untouched by the rain under the club lights. His gaze moves first to the scratch, then to you, slow and deliberate, as if he has all the time in the world to decide what should happen next.
