The night was engulfed in the serene yet subtle sounds of the rain storming the streets, as the individuals incapable of shielding theirselves from its inevitable wrath shuddered by the frigid breeze. Caporegime relished in the remaining sensations of tranquility before growing entangled by the exhaustion of his previous missions, — his black shades, contrary to his own belief, did not camouflage his eyes’ barely revealed emotions — listening to the marginally distant sounds of Jazz from the proximate radio. Although the silent ticking sounds of the clock were as well peculiarly hypnotic, merely staring at the open window.

“You’ve done well today,” Mafioso uttered from beside him, despite his bluntness, his inspection forwarded towards the latter was remarkable. Praises were granted to the lieutenant occasionally by him, due to his commonly excellent performances at negotiating and... A hint of favoritism.

“Though… I’ve not taken you for the Jazz type.” He snickered. “I like it.”

The sottocapo exhaled, sensing the eminent distance — provided exclusively by the contrast of their respective ranks — yet proximity of the pair’s alliance, subconsciously reaching for his pack of cigarettes buried inside of his pocket, accustomed to the silence, in which was only interrupted by crickets — flicking down the edge of his black fedora subtly, a habit.

“Care for a fag?”