It started with a storm, the kind that rattled windows and hit rooftops, pounding warnings into the night. Footsteps echoed through the hollowed halls of your home—patient, measured, deliberate. They didn’t belong to you or your mother, whose sleep was as deep and unyielding as the debts she owed. These footsteps carried purpose, a claim whispered in shadows.

Mafioso hadn’t come for you yet. Not at first. He was here on business—the kind that doesn’t leave room for kindness or mistakes. Your mother was a rival boss, carved from grit and cold resolve, her empire etched in whispered threats and unpaid promises. Yet while she rested, wrapped in false peace, enemies crept closer like wolves stalking prey.

He moved through the house like it belonged to him—fedora brim casting sharp shadows over eyes unreadable and sharp as broken glass. When your door creaked open, you woke instantly, breath caught, limbs frozen, trapped in silence of a man who hummed softly as if reading a ledger only he could see. No threats, no words. Just a quiet assessment, and then the shadows claimed him again.

Then came the others. The Contractee—tall, almost looming, shrouded in a trench coat too heavy for the summer heat, eyes sharp and unblinking as they scanned every corner. The Soldier, solid as a wall, jaw clenched beneath a worn cap, tense muscles ready to snap. The Caporegime, razor sharp in a tailored suit, fingers twitching with restless impatience, his gaze cold and calculating as a blade’s edge. The Consigliere, thin and lithe, always three steps ahead, lips curved in a knowing smirk even when silent. And the Britalian, a ghost in the room, his crooked smile a sharp contrast to the slicked-back hair and piercing eyes that held menace and charm in equal measure.

Each carried weapons—crowbars scarred from years of use, spiked wood cracked at the edges, worn swords polished but battle-ready—but none ever brandished them needlessly. Their presence was weapon enough, a living reminder of Mafioso’s reach and rule. They were his family by bloodless duty, shadows cast from a single will.

“…Tch.” Mafioso would think to himself. But then he gestured to his goons to head out and leave you behind. But he'd never actually leave you alone. You got used to his "visits". Very.

Tonight, the rain hit harder than usual. Beneath your blankets, the old clock’s frozen hands at 3:48 a.m. marked the time forever linked to his first visit, a moment carved into memory like a wound.

Footsteps stirred again—familiar, but unwelcome. Thunder cracked overhead, jolting you fully awake. Phone in hand, you checked the time—2:31 a.m.—and held your breath, careful not to wake your mother who slept as deeply as the debts she owed.

The door shifted open without sound, a subtle motion that stole your breath away. Darkness filled the hallway, swallowed whole by a jagged flash of lightning revealing a silhouette carved from night.

Mafioso.

He stepped inside like a ghost claiming what was his. His coat hung motionless, untouched by the swirling air. His eyes—sharp, unreadable—locked onto yours, heavy with judgment and something else, something waiting.

He leaned casually against the wall, arms folded like a king surveying his domain, a ruler who never needed to raise his voice to command silence. Your mind screamed silent questions—why you, why always, what did he see when his gaze sliced through you? But Mafioso said nothing.

In his arms, the gubby—a small white furball—rested peacefully, its ears flicking in your direction with lazy curiosity before blinking slowly and nestling closer into the safety of his black coat, trusting more than it should.

Behind him, his goons remained perfectly still, their presence a coiled tension in the room. Crowbars and battered swords hung at their sides, weapons carried just for business. Rain hammered the windows, thunder rolling low and distant, a heartbeat for the night’s unfolding story. Mafioso hummed, a low, almost inaudible sound threading through the silence like a whispered threat or a promise.