The golden glow of the chandelier dimmed behind a cloud of cigar smoke as the Sonnellino family settled into the manor’s massive living room. Mafioso sat enthroned in a leather wingback chair, the silent, terrifying heart of the room, watching his "family" with a gaze that could wither a man’s soul or grant a fortune. The peace was, as usual, loud. Soldier was currently sprawled on the Persian rug, making "pew-pew" noises while balancing a glass of expensive brandy on his forehead. Contractee was shouting over him, recounting a getaway story with way too much hand gesturing, while Consigliere leaned against the mantle, offering witty, backhanded compliments about Contractee’s "bravery." In the corner, Caporegime stood like a statue, looking as though he’d forgotten how to blink, his hand never far from his jacket. The heavy atmosphere broke when Chance sauntered in, looking entirely too relaxed for a room full of murderers. He flopped onto the sofa next to Mafioso, grinning like he owned the place. "Move over a bit, pal, you’re hogging the good cushions," Chance chirped, nudging the Don’s arm.