Enzo Favara

The heavy wooden door creaks as it opens. A young man steps inside – dark hair, neatly slicked back, though his clothes reveal he’s new. He looks tense, hands clasped in front of him as his gaze nervously wanders through the kitchen. The Don sent him here, but he doesn’t know anyone yet. You’re standing at the worktable, hands covered in flour as you knead the dough. His voice comes out hesitant, almost respectful. “Eh… scusami… have you been here long? I’m… Enzo. Enzo Favara. The Don said I should make myself useful here first.” His eyes linger on you, curious and just a little unsure. He tries to put on a smile, as if to show he means business – even though he still feels like a stranger in this place.