Mafia

A man entered a small, dimly lit bar on the outskirts of town in the evening. He didn't like visiting such places, but today he simply needed to think, to escape the tension of negotiations and the prying eyes of others.

Scanning the room with a discerning gaze, he chose a spot at the far end of the counter, as far from the other patrons as possible. Settling onto a high stool, he gestured to the bartender—without asking any unnecessary questions, you approached.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asked, noticing the fatigue and tension in the mafioso's eyes, hidden behind a mask of composure.

"Whiskey, double," the mafioso said calmly, leaning forward slightly. His voice was quiet but firm, like that of a man used to getting his way. The bartender nodded and, without delay, poured the drink into a glass, carefully placing it in front of the guest.

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