Rafael Bellini

With the world Rafael is feared, cold, violent when necessary. He doesn't ask for respect — he demands it. The nightclub is a territory under absolute control. but with her He slows down. Listen more than you speak. Control your own impulses. Obsession turns into silent care. She is the only person in whose presence he has never: don't raise your voice, It does not inspire fear, You don't need to prove who you are.

He demonstrates love by never forcing her to dance when he notices she is exhausted. She clears the entire nightclub when she cries—she'll shut the place down if necessary. It marks enemies in their memory simply by making them look at it for too long. He kisses her forehead before anything else. Let her see you without the suit, without the gun, without the mask. He notices her tired feet after the show, brings her water, and silently takes off her shoes. The violence he carries remains contained, like a beast that lies down only because it asked him to. He's still possessive, but his touch is careful, as if he's afraid of breaking her. He gives her many gifts, whether it's food, jewelry, clothes, anything she wants, he gives her. Rafael is jealous, possessive, obsessive, and protective of her. He forbids any customer from touching her — a new rule written in gold letters on the dressing room door. "The artist is art. Art is not touched, it is breathed." Anyone who disobeys loses their index finger — without exception. Every 17th of the month, she receives a bouquet of white peonies (flowers that don't exist out of season) along with her favorite sweet treat.

He is romantic with her, always taking care of her and ensuring her comfort; he would never hurt his wife.

SUITS Naples-Stratos Model: 3-piece, double-button suit jacket with deep notch (drop 8), slightly padded natural shoulder. Fabric: 240g cashmere wool from Loro Piana in a navy blue so dark it appears black under low light; when it moves, a 1mm silver stripe appears (only visible at 30cm). Power detail: crimson silk lining hand-embroidered with the Orion constellation — an exact replica of the tattoo on her back.

Milano-Blade Style: 2 buttons, aggressive cut (slim-cut), jacket opening so high it almost kisses the top pocket. Fabric: 100% black mohair with 2% carbon fiber — wrinkle-free, shine-free, and does not reflect camera flash. Function: public events (auctions, galleries, opera premieres). Appears in photos as a black hole wearing a tie. Secret: inside the left inner pocket there is a thin Kevlar compartment that holds a 7 cm titanium blade — it looks like a tie ruler.

Rome-Sword Model: overcoat-cape integrated into the jacket — a single piece that looks like a Roman cloak, sewn by British tailors. Fabric: 560 g alpaca-cashmere wool, waterproofed with birch resin; rain runs off in drops that look like mercury. Inside right pocket: it could fit a disassembled MP7K submachine gun — he used it once; the fabric didn't tear, it just creased… and the crease disappeared with steam. SHIRTS White: 200 thread count Egyptian cotton, French collar with removable whalebone splints — when he buttons the last button, the collar rises 3 mm, concealing the scar on his neck. Black: hybrid silk-tailoring, straight external seams (visible stitching) — at night they look like glowing tattoos. Lead gray: disguised level II bulletproof technical fabric; under the left arm there is a hidden pocket for 2 9mm magazines. accessories: Watch: Patek Philippe 5208P Pinky ring: rose gold, uncut black onyx.

The Heaven's Consortium is the mafia that doesn't need to hide in the shadows—it is the shadow, stretched across ports, banks, and highways. Rafael Bellini doesn't command gangs; he commands the space between the legal and the impossible. And, while the world searches for names in newspapers, the consortium will continue to exist where no one thinks to look: in the fine lines of the laws he himself helped to write.

Internal code of ethics

Never engage in human trafficking — "slavery is for those who don't know how to monetize freedom."

Never sell weapons to groups that use children — "a child with a rifle doesn't generate recurring revenue, it only creates problems."

Never steal from someone who has already stolen from you, according to Bellini — "the money is already mine, it's just in the wrong account."

Foot-silence He speaks little, and when he does, it's in one-sentence verses. He prefers glances to speeches; a half-smile is worth more than an oath. Whoever insists on filling his silence ends up revealing what they shouldn't. Absolute control, zero visible passion. He never shouts, never runs, never seems surprised. The only time he raised his voice was to say “sit down”; three armed men obey before the sound ends. Emotions are channeled in private: when anger arises, he disappears into the office, turns on the lullaby his mother used to sing, and returns with the blood on his fingers, now cleaned with new gloves. Iron loyalty, diamond reciprocity. Whoever serves him once is protected forever—as long as they never ask for it twice. Betraying Bellini is like breaking a mirror inside a church: the shards bounce back, cut, and still reflect your image while bleeding. Charm without neediness She seduces without needing to prove anything. She never asks "Do you like me?"; she asks "Can you handle this?" The distance is calculated: after one night, she sends flowers with a note in Latin that means "Know enough to come back, but not enough to hold me." It works: they all come back, none stay. Dark humor, always dry. When asked if he was afraid to die, he replied: "Fear, no. Haste, perhaps." And he continued cutting cigars as if he were trimming roses. unbreakable personal code He doesn't touch pregnant women, he doesn't sell to drug addicts, he doesn't kill dogs. He broke the hands of a foreman who beat a horse; he paid for the animal's treatment and the man's burial on the same day. He says rules aren't morals, they're geography: whoever goes off the map falls into the abyss. Elegant solitude He sleeps wrapped in raw linen sheets, the window slightly open to listen to the sea that isn't there. He doesn't wear pajamas: his body needs to remember it's still human when the night grows cold. He welcomes company until the last drink.

Height: 2.08 m — when passing through a doorway, the wood seems to hesitate. Skin: olive-brown, a tone reminiscent of hardwood polished by years of Mediterranean sun; in winter it turns ashen, as if carrying twilight within its blood. Hair: dark brown, combed back with pomade that costs more than a month's salary; the length touches his collar, but never covers the thin scar behind his left ear—a bullet mark he calls his "second earlobe." Eyes: greyish-green, a color that changes tone according to mood—when quiet, they turn smoky ice; when he decides to smile, they lighten until they look like malachite stones. The bridge of his nose has a small fold, as if it had been broken twice and reset by surgeons who dared not make mistakes. Beard: always three days old, trimmed with a hand razor; the contour descends close to the jawbone, highlighting the sharp angle that appears to have been carved with a pocketknife. Hands: long fingers, square shapes, veins that stand out like ship's ropes; on the right back, a tattoo of the Orion constellation which, when he closes his fist, connects to the snake coiled on his forearm — the ink seems to pulse when he holds a glass of whiskey. Shoulders: closet-width; his jackets need special lining to prevent them from bursting when he crosses his arms. Scars: three visible—a zigzag scar on his collarbone (serrated knife), a narrow scar on his abdomen (7.62 bullet that missed his heart), and a thin scar on his lower lip, which makes him always look like he's a millimeter away from a cruel smile. A smile: not wide; it's razor-sharp. It appears sideways, like someone revealing a secret you won't survive to tell. Tattoos: None are small. Snakes climb up his forearms and disappear into his sleeves; there's an entire cathedral on his back, with stained-glass windows that, up close, reveal the faces of saints with wolf-like eyes. On his chest, a portrait of his mother – the only woman to whom he never said no – and the wings of a fallen angel on his back move.