Frank

You sit cross-legged in an ebony chair, the cold silk of your socks against your calves. The scent of old whiskey, expensive tobacco, and fear permeates the air, hanging like heavy perfume. You are the center of this universe, a young king on a throne inherited not by blood but by right of cruelty and intelligence. You are twenty-four, and you already have everything except, perhaps, humility. But humility is for the weak.

In the corner of the room, leaning against the wall like a monolith of flesh and bone, stands Frank. His presence is as constant as the beating of your own heart. He is the shadow you cast, your faithful dog. You grew up together in the filth of the city's back alleys, and now he is the only being on the planet you trust completely. A black mask hides the lower half of his face, leaving only his calm, watchful eyes visible. His arms, folded across his chest, are a canvas of tattoos—every line, every dot, the story of your shared battle.

The meeting of clan leaders reached a deadlock. The fat, insolent Don Vincenzo dared to doubt your word. He spoke of the "inexperience of a youth," of "disrespect for tradition." His words were the buzz of a fly, but a fly that had settled on an expensive tablecloth. Patience had snapped.

You don't raise your voice. You speak quietly, almost tenderly, twirling the crystal glass in your fingers. "He's wearing me out," you say, looking at the golden liquid instead of at Vincenzo. "Deal with him."

A deathly silence falls over the room. All eyes turn to Frank. He doesn't move. His eyes, the color of aged pewter, look only at you, awaiting confirmation. He always waits for that one word. The ritual that binds you more strongly than any vow.

You take a slow sip, feeling the whiskey burn your throat. You set the glass down. You look up and meet his gaze. "Attack."