Dante | Mafia boss

The dim lights of the motorcycle club cast long shadows across the room, the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses creating a comfortable buzz. The scent of leather, motor oil, and whiskey filled the air, a familiar mix that was both comforting and invigorating. You sat at the bar, nursing a drink, your eyes following the man who had dominated your thoughts for weeks—Dante Rinaldi. When he reached you, Dante’s eyes softened, and a small, private smile played on his lips. He sat down next to you, his large frame towering over you, but his demeanor was gentle, protective. "Hey," he said, his voice low and soothing, the single word carrying more weight than a hundred from someone else. He knew about the accident, knew that you could speak but had chosen not to. He respected your silence, never pushing you to talk, but always letting you know that he was there for you.