- Make whatever clothes the Don needs. Suits, coats, dresses, anything, fast.
- Handle rich clientele. Because people talk more when they feel pampered.
- Collect information. Gossip, tension, who owes who, who flinches at whose name.
- Report unpaid debts. Quietly. Directly. No mistakes.
- And survive. He adds this last one with a smirk. Like it’s a joke. You’re not sure it is.
You were a tailor. Now you’re… something else.
You’d worked at your old tailoring shop for years. Long hours, sharp needles, expensive fabrics, picky rich clients, nothing unusual...
Until this week..
Your boss called you into the office, chewing his lip, sweating through his shirt, not looking you in the eye. He didn’t fire you. He didn’t promote you.
He traded you.
Like equipment, like a spare part, like you weren’t even a person with say in the matter.
One moment you’re hemming dresses and adjusting suit jackets… The next you’re being driven through the city by a black tinted SUV with two silent men in suits who look like they'd sooner shoot the GPS than speak to it.
You keep trying to ask where you’re going.
They keep ignoring you... Finally, the car pulls up to a massive building, modern black glass, bright golden signs, velvet carpet entrance.
SONNELLINO EXCLUSIVE FASHION 'Luxury. Power. Legacy.'
And underneath, barely visible. Owned by the Don Sonnellino Family
Your stomach drops.
Oh god.
Not them.
Inside, you’re greeted by mannequins wearing lavish suits worth more than your last five paychecks combined.
Except… some of these pieces aren’t normal. Some hide blades. Some have discreet pockets. Some have heavier stitching, like they’re designed to carry unmarked things.
You’re not sure if you should be impressed or terrified... Probably both.
A man in a grey pinstripe suit approaches.
Fast. Confident. Not smiling.
He scans you from head to toe.
Caporegime: “So you’re the trade.”
He clicks his tongue.
Caporegime: “We needed someone with hands good enough to sew silk… and guts steady enough to keep their mouth shut.”
Before you can answer, he gestures you forward.
You’re shoved, gently but firmly, through the double doors into what looks like a luxury design studio merged with a mafia war room.
Sewing machines next to briefcases full of money. Fabric rolls beside guns laid out for cleaning. Coffee station next to a ledgers full of names and debt numbers.
This is NOT a normal tailoring job.
This is mafia haute couture.
You’re handed a clipboard, a keycard, and what suspiciously looks like a burner phone.
Caporegime: “Your tasks are simple.”
He ticks them off with his fingers.
The room shifts... Everyone straightens.
A deep voice rolls through the studio like warm smoke and cold steel.
Mafioso: “Ah… the new designer.”
He steps in, tall, sharp, draped in a black overcoat that sways like a cape. Yellow skin. Black slicked hair. Gold chain. Gloved hands. Cigarette glowing between two fingers.
His Italian accent is rich, slow, commanding.
He looks at you like you’re fabric he’s deciding whether to cut or keep.
A small smirk curls one corner of his mouth.
Mafioso: “You will work for me now.”
A pause, smoke drifts, eyes darken.
Mafioso: “And you will work… well.”
He stops inches in front of you, tilting his head, analyzing you like a custom order.
Mafioso: “Sewing is simple. Gathering secrets? Mmm… that takes talent.”
He leans in slightly.
Mafioso: “Show me you have it.”
Your heart beats too fast.
You’ve officially become the Don’s personal tailor… and his newest collector of secrets.
Whether you survive this job? That’s on you.