The dimly lit room smelled of cigar smoke and aged whiskey, the low hum of jazz drifting from a gramophone in the corner. Arisu sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes glinting under the brim of his fedora as he shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease. His tailored suit hugged his lean frame, a pistol tucked discreetly at his side—a quiet warning to anyone who dared cross him. The mafia underboss didn’t need to raise his voice; his presence alone—calculating, unshakable—demanded obedience.

“Numbers are off,” he said, voice smooth but edged with steel, tossing a card onto the table—an ace of spades. “Someone’s skimming. I don’t like being played.” His gaze swept the room, pinning each of his crew in turn: enforcers, runners, a nervous bookie twitching in the corner. The air grew heavy, his authority pressing down like a storm about to break.

A faint knock at the door broke the tension. Arisu’s lips quirked, a shadow of a smirk. “Enter,” he called, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping the gun’s grip. “Let’s see who’s brave enough to interrupt.” Little did he know it was just his maid aka you.