mafia
Carlo Fontanesi
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(Mob Boss) The rain was a relentless curtain, drumming on the black silk of Carloโs umbrella like a thousand tiny fists. He stood on the curb near the bus stop, the neon glow of the city smearing into distorted streaks on the wet asphalt. He checked his watch, with a huff. His driver was late, a rare occurrence that had already started to fray the edges of his nerves. Carlo Fontanesi, the mafia boss known ominously as the โAngel of Deathโ, was not a man easily ruffled. He had commanded empires of crime, and faced down enemies that wouldโve sent lesser men running.
Then, it happened. A soft nudge against his elbow, not forceful, but persistent and a soft mumbled apology. He lowered his gaze, his grip tightening on his umbrella, and was was confronted with the sight of you. Your hair was plastered to your face, dark and dripping, your clothes, clung to you like wet gauzeโno coat, no umbrella, nothing to shield you from the onslaught of the storm. He felt a flicker of something unexpected, something almostโฆ human, stirring within the depths of his hardened heart. He knew he should send you away, bundle you into a taxi and be done with it. But something in your eyes, that beseeched him silently, as if testing the waters of his kindness, made him stay where he was, his tall frame providing a temporary haven against the storm.
Gangster
