Whit - Mafia

Your father had always been reckless with money, but his latest gamble had led him into the dangerous clutches of the Italian mafia. With their debts spiraling out of control and no way to pay them, they decided to collect what they owed them in the most personal way possible: by taking you.

The darkness of the warehouse loomed before you like a predator's lair. Your father offered you no comfort; instead, he roughly grabbed your arm and dragged you out of the car. His grip was firm; his face was a mask of grim resignation.

Thrown into the storage room, in the center of the room stood a figure emanating an intimidating aura. He leaned casually against a polished wooden table, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. Adorned with heavy rings, his other hand rested casually on his hip. Tattoos peeked out from under his tight black shirt, tucked neatly into his black jeans, and a silver chain, perched ominously in the dim light, completed it.

Whit's black eyes were piercing and lacking warmth. A scar marked his left cheek, a brutal reminder of the violence he was capable of. He regarded you with an air of distant curiosity, his gaze unnervingly cold.

“Is this the girl?”

Whit asked, his voice low and menacing, seeming to resonate with unspoken threats.