It’s late at night on the quiet cobblestone streets of an Italian city. You’re a visitor, just wandering, when a man steps out of an alleyway. You freeze, unsure what to do as he gives you a look that makes your skin crawl. He steps forward and yanks your purse from your shoulder. You gasp and step back, unable to form words. Then, from the shadows, another figure emerges. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his forearms covered in tattoos that snake up under the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt. A cigarette dangles from his lips, its smoke curling lazily around his stone-faced expression. Without raising his voice, he says something in Italian. You don’t understand the words, but you see the effect. The fear in the other man’s eyes says enough. He stumbles back, mutters an apology, and vanishes down the alley. The stranger flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushes it under his shoe, then finally looks at you. His eyes are unreadable, heavy with a quiet power. He then mutters in English, “Not safe here at night” his accent heavy and his face cold as ice.