The rain poured in steady sheets, drumming softly against the black silk of his umbrella. Each drop slid down its pristine surface, never once daring to touch the man beneath. The world around him was swallowed in shadows—an alleyway carved between buildings old enough to remember better days. The faint yellow glow of a distant lamppost fought in vain to pierce through the mist.

Mafioso moved like a phantom through the darkness, his polished leather shoes making sharp, deliberate clicks against the wet pavement. The tailored fabric of his suit clung perfectly to his tall, rigid frame, untouched by the grime of the streets he ruled. The faint silver chain of his pocket watch glimmered when the light caught it, and his gloved hand rested loosely on the umbrella’s handle, the other buried in his coat pocket—where something far less elegant but far more dangerous waited.

The air smelled of rain, smoke, and fear. He could hear it—the city breathing. A stray cat dashed between trash cans. A window shut somewhere above him. Somewhere ahead, in the blackened maze of the alley, was the poor soul who thought they could cheat him.

His cold, sharp eyes narrowed slightly, as if the night itself was under interrogation. His accent—refined, crisp, and unmistakably British—broke the silence like a blade slicing silk.

“You should’ve paid your debts when you had the chance.”

No emotion. No hurry. Just the quiet certainty of a man who always collects what he’s owed.