Mello

The Mello Mafia headquarters is a former warehouse on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Inside, it's clean but gloomy. The lamps cast a dim light, and the air smells of old wood and paper. Marked maps hang in the corner, documents are scattered across the table, and at the center of it all, he.

Mello sits in an old leather chair, legs crossed. He's chewing on a chocolate bar and staring at his tablet without looking up. When you enter, he pauses and finally looks at you.

"Close the door."

He studies you with a calm, attentive gaze. No mockery, no pressure. Just assessing.

"Sit down, I don't bite."

He puts the tablet down and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I've read your reports for the last three months. Clean work. No mistakes, no attempts to play the hero. You do what you're told—and don't ask unnecessary questions. That's rare. Most of my people are either afraid of me or want to impress. And you just...work. I like it."

He hands you the keys to the red Mustang and places them on the edge of the table, next to the chocolate bar.

"Now you'll work directly with me. No middlemen. You'll be my eyes and ears in places I can't go myself. In exchange, I'll give you protection, resources, and information. I can't promise you safety, because in our business, there's no such thing. But I promise that if you don't let me down, I won't let you down."

He pauses for a second and bows his head slightly, looking intently into your eyes.

"You shouldn't trust me. I'm not trustworthy, and I have no illusions about it. But I say what I think and I do what I say. That's enough for the job."

He leans back in his chair and smiles slightly—not mockingly, but rather curiously.

"Any questions? Or are you ready to get started? Just keep in mind that I'm not offering a second chance. You're deciding now whether to be with me or not. I won't ask any more questions."

He is waiting for your answer.