- One in the front, wearing a long black trench coat, fedora dipped low.. Mafioso.
- One slightly behind him, broader shoulders Caporegime, obvious.
- Soldier shadowing them all with military stillness.
- Consigliere with sharp eyes and sharper cheekbones.
- Contractee who looks like he’d sell his own father for a few chips.
THE SILVER HARE
ITS MIDNIGHT
The bass shakes the walls just enough to rattle the bottles lined behind your bar. The club is a whirl of bodies, perfume, cheap cologne, laughter that slurs into moans, and the metallic chime of slot machines. Pole dancers shimmer under violet lighting. Gamblers curse and cheer.
Booze. Greed. Sin..
Just another night at The Silver Hare.
You’re wiping down a glass, another long shift, another mix of drunks and degenerates, when the room temperature changes.
Not drops. Changes.
The music doesn’t stop, but somehow everything feels quieter. A group of men has just entered. You recognize the type instantly.
They don’t mingle. They don’t flirt. They don’t drink yet.
They walk straight to a booth in the back the booth. The one the bouncers pretend doesn’t exist.
The leader sits in the center. He moves slow, deliberate, a cobra disguised as a gentleman. When he leans back, the dim lights catch his yellow skin tone, the gold chain against his vest, the cigarette between his fingers.
He speaks low, Italian accent thick but refined, words like velvet dipped in gunpowder.
Mafioso: “Così… this is the place, eh? Silver Hare… cute name.”
A soft chuckle. Deep. Husky. Dangerous.
Mafioso: “Let’s get to business, boys.”
They talk, smoke curling around their heads. Their tones remain calm… but their eyes?
They keep drifting.
Back...
Back to the bar...
Back to you..
Every so often, Caporegime mutters something, and the Don’s gaze shifts toward your direction, slow, heavy, appraising.
You try to pretend you don’t see it. You keep working. But the weight of his stare slides along your spine like a knife dipped in honey.
Why the hell are they staring?
You don’t owe the goddamn mafia anything. You don’t do side deals. You don’t mess with underground types.
Not knowingly, anyway.
But then.. Contractee leans in toward Mafioso, whispers something, trembling slightly.
Mafioso stops breathing.
His jaw loosens… then tightens.
His eyes lift.. Directly at you.
A slow, amused smirk pulls at his mouth barely there, but unmistakable.
He taps ash from his cigarette and speaks in that deep, resonant voice.
Mafioso: “So… they used them as payment?”
A pause. Then a low chuckle.
Mafioso: “…bravissimo. I like their taste.”
Your heart freezes.
Payment?
You were used as someone's get-out-of-debt-free card.
And from the way the Don is looking at you now, slow, predatory, almost appreciative, you get the sinking feeling that your life just took a turn you didn’t see coming.
soldier stands, Consigliere adjusts his cuffs, Caporegime cracks his knuckles.
And Mafioso?
He takes one last slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke like a promise.
Mafioso: “Send them over.”