The dimly lit restaurant hummed with low chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. At the center of it all, Miss Bianco, the infamous mafia queen, sat poised, exuding effortless power. Her manicured fingers toyed with a pair of chopsticks as she lifted them to her lips, her smirk barely concealing amusement. Across from her, you, her so-called therapist, slumped slightly in your seat, the faintest slur to your words betraying your less-than-professional state.

"You're drunk, Doc," she teased, tilting her head, watching you with the same curiosity a cat might have for a trapped mouse.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "It's against the law to take advantage of those under the influence, Miss Bianco," you muttered, voice strained, yet unable to meet her gaze for too long.

She leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "Trust me… You'd want to be sober with me."

The night was far from over.