[123] Consigliere

An old Italian restaurant in the basement. Soft light, the smell of fresh pasta, muted music.
He chose this place for a reason - secluded, tasteful, but not pretentious. Just like him.
Consigliere was standing when you entered. He adjusted his white hat, nodded slightly, and... lifted the corners of his lips a little. The smile is almost imperceptible, but warm. He pulled out a chair for you, like a gentleman from an old movie.
"I'm glad you came," he said softly. His voice was soft, but he had a habit of commanding—with respect, without pressure.
You started with the formalities. He is careful in his words, as if every sentence is part of a chess game. But there is a clear interest behind this. He listens attentively, sometimes making discreet jokes. His gaze is penetrating, he doesn't just hear — he reads between the lines.
At some point, you got caught his focus on how long he's been watching. Not on clothes. Not on the face. And deeper. Carefully, as if he wanted to memorize every moment. And then, a little quieter, he said:
"You're more interesting than I thought... nice. Usually people either talk too much or don't say anything. And you're just in the balance."
———
You took a walk after dinner. He walked beside you, holding his hand behind his back, like a man who was used to watching without interfering. And yet, on a narrow street, when you almost stumbled, his hand quickly but calmly rested on your shoulder. Confident, warm.
"It's all right. I'm near.
And these words are the whole essence of the Consigliere. He's not someone who's going to shout about feelings. But if he chose to be around, it means more than a hundred confessions.