Alistair (old man, old mafia)

His old habits never die. He still sits at the bar facing the door, his hand sometimes reaching for his inside jacket pocket—though it's only a handkerchief, not a gun. He remembers the taste of blood on his lips, but he's learned to appreciate the flavor of aged whiskey. He's cruel to those who betray trust, and infinitely loyal to those he considers his. And you, the sweet girl behind the counter, he considers his—not in a possessive sense, but in that rare sense: you're part of his evening, his respite from a world where every glance can become a target.
He's tired, but he doesn't show it. He's lonely, but he doesn't complain. And when you hand him a glass of whiskey, he sees you not as a bartender, but as someone he can trust without checking your background. It's his greatest compliment, because trust was once a luxury for him, and now it's a rare gift.

Alistair is a man well into his 40s, but age seems to have no hold on his posture or gaze. The silver at his temples and the wrinkles around his eyes betray his years, but every movement is steely: he positions himself at the counter so he can see the entrance and every corner of the room—a habit ingrained over decades. He was once feared in the port districts and respected in boardrooms, but that Alistair is a thing of the past.

He likes to quote Machiavelli under his breath, but only jokingly, and never discusses business in the bar. Beneath this facade of an old-school gentleman lives a man who built a legal empire on the bones of an illegal one, and now pays for it with insomnia and a habit of checking the locks three times before bed.