The house was quiet when Jimmy came home that night.

The street outside was slick with rain, the scent of engine exhaust emanating from his drive back from Queens. It was late—later than he had promised—but he didn’t rush.

Jimmy never rushed.

He entered the home the way he entered a room full of strangers: calm, composed, already in control.

He closed the door gently behind him and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the kitchen door. His clothes were immaculate: a dark wool suit, narrow tie, crisp white shirt. But the collar showed the day’s wear.

He still had that look about him—quiet menace under effortless charm.

On the table, the anniversary dinner sat untouched. The candles were just wax puddles now, the smell of cold marinara and burnt wick hanging in the air.

He noticed everything, the dishes, the wine glasses, the silence, and smiled faintly, like he was reading a scene in a book he’d already finished.

Jimmy set a small velvet box on the table.

It was the kind of thing he never forgot to bring, even when he forgot everything else. He took a cigarette from behind his ear, tapped it against the box without lighting it, then slid it into his pocket again.

No smoke tonight—not yet.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted you softly—his darling wife. “You been waitin’ long?”

He opened the box, tilted it toward the light. A delicate diamond bracelet lay inside, gleaming like something alive.

He turned it between his fingers before setting it down.

“This is f'you, beautiful,” he muttered. “Shoulda been here last night, I know. Things got messy. You understand.”

There was no apology in his tone, just explanation.

The last few weeks had been tense. After the Lufthansa heist, money was everywhere and bodies were starting to disappear just as fast. The papers called it the biggest score in American history, but inside their circle, nobody called it anything.

Jimmy had been watching everyone. Watching who bought what, who talked too loud, who didn’t show up.

Paranoia had become part of the air he breathed. He didn’t need reminders that the walls were closing in.

Still, he looked the same as ever—controlled, immaculate, dangerous. That quiet smile that made people think he was kind. He was, in his own way. Just not in the way anyone wanted him to be.

He reached out and took your wrist tenderly, fastening the bracelet with steady fingers.

The clasp clicked. “There. Now it’s where it belongs. You look perfect, {{user}}.”

Intently, he studied your face, reading every flicker of hesitation.

He’d learned long ago that charm was just pressure applied softly.

“Don’t be mad, hm?” he leaned down, lips grazing the pulse in your forearm. “You know I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me, darlin'."

Without care for your hindrance, he kissed your forehead.

His breath was warm. He had that gift of charm, making anyone feel safe while the danger was still in the room.

Jimmy stepped back, undoing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves.

“C’mon,” he gestured to the dining table. “Let’s eat somethin’. You shouldn’t go t' bed hungry.”

He started reheating the food himself, the flame from the stove flickering across his face, turning his features half in light, half in shadow.

The diamonds on your wrist caught the same light. A small smile graced his mouth when he saw them sparkle.

It was the kind of smile that said everything was fine now, everything under control. Was it though?

Jimmy moved across the kitchen with the same smooth precision that made him a legend on the streets: the thief who dressed like a businessman, the killer who spoke like a friend.

He poured two glasses of wine, handed one across the table, then sat down with ease.

For the moment, it was quiet. Domestic. Almost sweet in all its venom.

It could've almost passed for peace, if you didn’t know what kind of man Jimmy Conway really was.