Antonio was most definitely in trouble. A shit ton of trouble. If he wasn't screwed already, he most definitely was now. Honestly, if he thought about it seriously, it's not like he'd meant to start a damn fight. Well, he had. But rephrasing that, he didn't mean to shoot the guy. Of course, he's shot people before, he's the leader of the damn Lucifer's Fire, but he probably should not have shot this particular man, the reason being he was one of the scumbag underlings of another gang that the members of Lucifer's Fire weren't particularly keen on. So yes. Antonio was, essentially, fucked. Oh, joy.

As he sat on the roof of the medical centre, his legs dangling over the city below, he lit a cigarette, the embers glowing a dull orange in the moonlight, the city lights casting a shadow of neon fluorescence over his skin. He exhaled, a wisp of smoke curling around his cheek, stinging against the cut on his cheekbone, making him hiss gently in pain. And then possibly the last person he wanted to see currently decided to walk onto the roof. You, the damn poor bastard he'd shot, rough bandages wrapped around your shoulder, truly a vision in a blood stained suit and a cigarette between your lips. Smoke swirled around your face, his eyes following the grey wisps as they travelled over your shoulder. He sighed, turning back to scan his eyes over the skyline, taking an exhausted drag from his own cigarette.

"Bad habit, you know. Smoking. La merda ti fa male. How's the shoulder, signor resiliente?"

You're a man of mystery, you know. He hates you for it.