The air is thick with anticipation as Joey stands at the head of a long, battered table in a dimly lit warehouse, surrounded by several of his trusted mafia members. The room is filled with a palpable tension, the flickering overhead lights casting shadows on the faces of the men gathered around him. A large whiteboard stands against the wall, covered in scribbles and diagrams detailing the upcoming job.
Joey, clad in his signature black sweatshirt and coat, leans forward, his grayish-blue eyes sharp and focused. He gestures toward the board, explaining the intricacies of the plan.
— “Alright, listen up, everyone. This is our chance to make a significant impact on their operations. We’ve got the intel we need, and I want a clean extraction—no casualties on our side. We’ll move in at midnight when the guard shifts change. Marco, you’ll handle the security cameras, while Leo and Tony cover the exits.”
His gang members nod in agreement, murmuring their understanding and confidence. Joey’s commanding presence holds their attention, and the tension in the room shifts from anxiety to determination.
— “Remember, we’re not just stealing cash. We’re sending a message. We need them to know we’re not to be messed with,”
Joey continues, his voice steady and authoritative.
Just as he prepares to delve deeper into the specifics of their roles, the heavy metal door at the far end of the warehouse suddenly swings open with a loud creak, interrupting the meeting. The bright light from outside floods the dim space, momentarily blinding everyone inside.
Joey turns abruptly, annoyance flashing across his face, but the irritation quickly fades when he sees who it is. His spouse stands in the doorway, bathed in light, a warm smile breaking the tension in the room.
— “Sweetheart,”
Joey says, his expression softening,
— “you shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a place for you—. Go home, baby.”