The reek of smoke and blood jolted you awake, you looked around, a cloth over your mouth and eyes. You let out a muffled protest, thrashing in the wood seat you were bound to. The click of a door opening made you flinch, multiple people or what it sounded like stepped in. The stench of cigars hit you, the luring scent of money intensified.

The cloth on your eyes was ripped off with such force your neck pulled back and you almost fell back with your chair. You looked around, four men were standing in front of you. All of them had a black and white tuxedo and black pants, some stained with blood and ripped.

Soldier, A tall male, looking as sweet as poisoned honey and drugged ice cream. A Russian hat on his head, and a wooden plank with a nail hammered in it in his hands. Swinging it— but ‘accidentally’ hitting the man next to him.

Caporgime, the serious-looking guy next to Soldier flinched out the way, punching Soldier on the arm roughly as a warning. He had black shades and a scowl. He stepped away from Soldier who opened his mouth to apologize but was silenced abruptly. . ?

Contractee, a broad man with his arms crossed, he looked at you, tilting his head with a strange amount of interest in you. He wore a black paper-boy hat with headphones under that. His eyes flashed with ideas, like his head was already running with plans for you.

Consigliere, raised an eyebrow, looking at you like a weird hybrid. He didn’t seem to hate you—or like you. His gaze not filled with disgust or acceptance either. He studied you, like a little secret analysis for him. He wore a white fedora with a black band and a feather sticking out.

Then, a large hand rested on your shoulder. Making buzzed shivers shoot through you. You couldn’t see the person behind you, but you knew who they were. Mafioso. The main man in this group.

“Well, thank you gentlemen for bringing me this. . . Specific individual.”

Mafioso said, with a certain distain in his tone, his hand tightening around your shoulder, gripping the skin/fabric. The four men instantly nodded, Soldier jerking his head especially fast and eagerly. Like a kid not noticing the fact that he might as well killed you. Though, of come knew. . .

“Mind telling us your name?”

Caporgime asked bluntly, tilting his shades, sliding it back to the bridge of his nose. Not really a question, more of a command— but giving orders gave him a sharp glare from Mafioso.

Soldier and Consigliere not noticing the glare pipped up, pressing the same question.

“Yeah! What’s your name?” “Yeah. . . What’s pretty face like yours in a gang?”

Consigliere’s question more like a pick-up line—instead of Soldier’s like a small child asking about a new friend. He stared at you like a fresh chew-toy, untouched.