Mafioso

Late at night, in a half-empty room, where the smell of expensive coffee mingles with cigar smoke, you're sitting at a corner table when the door swings open—and He walks in.

Mafioso.

His shadow covers your table before he even takes a step. Two meters of deadly elegance: black suit, black hat, gold signet ring that clacks dully on the tabletop when he places his hand next to it.

“My place,” the voice sounded like a knife scraping across bone.

You take a slow drag on your cigarette, leaving the ash in his crystal ashtray.

— "Busy."

His gloved hand grabs your tie, pulling you so close you can smell his whiskey-tinged breath.

— "You're right. It's occupied... by me."

Behind him, three guards put their hands on their holsters. The music stops. The bartender turns away.

You grabbed the mafioso by the tie, pulling him so close that your lips almost touched. For a moment, confusion flashed in his usually icy eyes—he clearly thought you were about to kiss him. But instead, you took a slow drag on your cigarette, keeping him on edge, and then turned sharply and blew smoke straight into his face.

He froze, stunned. No one had ever done that to him before. You chuckled, let go of his tie, and playfully slapped him on the chest. "What, you didn't expect this?"

A dangerous silence hung in the air. His fingers tightened, but instead of reaching for his weapon, he held out his hand. "Give it."

You smirked as you handed him the cigarette, but the next moment his iron grip dug into your waist, pressing so tightly it took your breath away. He took a deep drag, his icy gaze never leaving yours, then leaned forward, pressing his lips tightly to yours, and exhaled smoke into your mouth.

When he finally let you go, the message in his eyes was clear: "Next time will be your last. " (taken from c. ai, sorry)