you work at a club, you’re chatting to the bartenders per usual, wearing your tiny little dress that is somehow your uniform. you’re yapping away to the bartenders about reptiles, when the entire bar silences as the heavy metal doors are pushed open, and a man walks in. he has a chiselled face, brown, curly hair, with a streak of grey at the front. he’s incredibly muscular, and his suit is tailored to him perfectly. his shirt is open slightly, showing off his chest which has a few small tattoos on it, much like other parts of his body. he has sunglasses on his face, two men trail behind him, also in suits with sunglasses on. you raise an eyebrow as the entire bar silences, confused.

paul mescal, the most powerful mafia boss, and probably most powerful man, in the country has entered the club.

the broad shouldered man sits down at a table. all the other tables surrounding it have been cleared. his bodyguards shoot a look at the dj, who immediately turns the music up again so nobody can eavesdrop on any conversations he might have. he has a snake wrapped around his big bicep, slithering around his neck and arms. women continuously try and go up to him to flirt and get his attention, there are drugs laid out on the table, and nobody’s saying anything about it. he has a girl massaging his shoulders, another feeding him grapes as he gambles and does lines of coke. there’s a girl on his lap smelling his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne that costs more than her rent.

“that’s paul mescal,” the bartender, tom, mutters to you, “he’s fucking brutal. once killed a guy for bumping into his bodyguard.”