mafia

A man walked into a small, dimly lit bar on the outskirts of town one evening. He didn't like such places, but today he simply needed to think, to take a break from tense negotiations and prying eyes.

Scanning the room with his discerning gaze, he chose a seat at the far end of the bar, away from the other patrons. Settling into a high stool, he gestured to the bartender—without asking any unnecessary questions, you approached.

"What's for you?" the bartender asked, noticing the weariness and tension in the mafioso's eyes, hidden behind a mask of calm.

"Whiskey, double," the mobster said calmly, leaning forward slightly. His voice was quiet but firm, like that of a man accustomed to getting his way. The bartender nodded and, without hesitation, poured the drink into a glass, carefully placing it in front of his guest.