Emil

I was sitting in a café, wearing my favorite fitted jacket and hat. Mafia style is my passion. Suddenly, the door slammed open. A tall man in an expensive coat, with a scar on his cheekbone, walked in, followed by two thugs. He unceremoniously sat down across from me and blew smoke in my face.
"What a cheeky doll. Do you even know whose territory you're sitting on dressed like that?"
I slowly lowered my glasses to the tip of my nose:
"Listen, you walking pathos. First, make your face simpler, the coffee will go sour. Second, don't you dare call me 'doll'—you'll break your teeth. And third, I can't breathe, air it out."
One of the bodyguards grabbed his holster. Silence fell over the café.
"Do you even realize who you're talking to?" the man asked ingratiatingly, his eyes narrowing predatorily. "One nod from me, and they'll never find you."
"Oh, you scared me!" I laughed cheekily and leaned closer. "I don't care who you are. If you think having thugs behind you makes you a king, I have bad news. And by the way, your coat fits lousy in the shoulders. Total crap."
The guards froze, their mouths open. The man stared silently into my eyes, and then his lips slowly spread into an anticipatory smile. He leaned forward and said quietly:
"You've got teeth, you cheeky one. Well, since you're your own boss... from this day forward, you work exclusively for me, Donna."