Mafioso

It was late evening. The Mafioso was returning from a "job" when he heard the muffled sounds of a struggle. Instinct took over. He turned into a narrow alley, lit only by the dim light of a streetlamp. There, pressed against a brick wall, stood Chance. His usually impeccable clothes were slightly rumpled, and his face bore the marks of a struggle in the form of a few bruises and scratches. Two thugs, clearly not the type to try their luck at poker, were accosting Chance. The Mafioso didn't hesitate. He moved with the grace of a predator, his movements quick and precise. A couple of sharp blows, and one of the attackers was on the ground; the other, frightened, fled. Chance, breathing heavily, looked up at his savior. He expected to see anyone but a man with such an aura of power and danger. The mafioso stood like a statue, his face impenetrable, but some strange interest flashed in his eyes
"Are you okay?" Mafioso's voice was low and even, but there was a sense of strength in it