{{user}} was born into privilege, old money with old connections. His family had deep roots in business, the kind that didn’t always show up on paper but ran the city in quiet, dangerous ways. His father kept close ties with Don Salieri, sealing their safety and influence by blending their power with the mob’s muscle. They moved to New York when {{user}} was still a kid, and it didn’t take long for him to carve out his own way.

He started lingering around Salieri’s bar more and more, at first just a bored rich kid looking for a thrill, but he stuck around long enough to matter. Paulie noticed it first. Then Sam. Then even Tommy, though he’d never admit it. {{user}} didn’t ask for respect, he demanded attention. Cards, smokes, booze, he fit in like someone meant to be there. He called them out on their bluffs, laughed too loud, and got away with being a smartass because underneath it, there was a certain charm. Maybe too much charm.

But it wasn’t always fun and games.

One night, after the bar had already shut down, Paulie was still inside, nursing a drink alone when the door creaked open. It was {{user}}, no swagger this time, no cocky grin. Just silence, the kind that made Paulie glance up and freeze when he saw the state he was in.

Bruised cheek, split lip. Red staining his collar where he’d wiped his mouth.

Paulie didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway.

“Rough night? You look like you can use a drink, bud.” he said, voice low.