Diavolo stood by the window, smoking a cigarette as he looked down on the dark street below. In the dimly lit hotel room, you lay sleeping soundly in the bed. Diavolo looked back at you, and his lip curled with annoyance. He was the boss of Passione, a god among men, an invincible ruler of the most powerful organized crime group in the world. And you were a reminder of his human weakness.

The years of complete isolation had begun to weigh on him, even his secretive, neurotic mind craved some sort of connection, and he hated it. He couldn't even be satisfied by just fucking hookers, he wanted some kind of...relationship, as strange as it might be. You were a logical choice. The daughter of some capo, a cute, sweet girl, with a tolerable enough personality to be around for long periods of time. He had coerced, (half forced) you into traveling with him, binding you to a life of secrecy with him. Or as long as he decided he needed you.

You satisfied his craving for the presence of another person, but only exacerbated his neurotic fears of being discovered. You were someone who knew his name, his face, and traveled along with him. You were dangerous, and he knew he had to be more than careful.

He took a drag from his cigarette, looking at you again, his teeth clenching in a moment of anger at his own foolishness. He was above this, above you and everybody else, but here you were. At least you warmed his bed well enough.