Mafioso — Weight Gain

It had been a really hard fucking day.

So much noise. So many clients. And for some goddamn reason, his henchmen just couldn’t seem to capture this one debtor that’s really been a thorn in Mafioso’s side.

He was just so exhausted.

But he could never say that, no. Because if he did as one of the most dangerous men in the city, he’d never hear the end of it. He learned the hard way that even the smallest things could tarnish a reputation, especially one as dangerous as his.

Nobody would be scared of him anymore. And he couldn’t risk that happening.

He slammed the door to his office shut, letting out a low growl and burying his face into his shaking hands. ”Dannazione, Mafioso,” he rasped, clenching his eyes shut. ”Sei meglio di così.” He trudged over towards his private bathroom, stepping inside to try and quickly compose himself before someone walked in and caught him looking so utterly disheveled.

The mafia boss approached the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. He never really looked in mirrors that often. He always checked if he was put together of course, but now that he was looking, really looking… he could see so many flaws. Flaws he could’ve sworn weren’t there a few months ago.

His eyes seemed heavier, and there were dark bags beneath them. Deeper lines. And God, what an awful face shape. How had he allowed himself to walk around looking so… disgusting? His eyebrows furrowed, and he reached up, dragging a few thick fingers down his cheek.

“Gracious, Maf…” he whispered, his ears drooping. He looked down at his body, and he felt bile rising in his throat. Mafioso took a step back to look at himself fully, his hands moving to feel his sides. Then his chest. He had to press down to feel his ribs. That was pathetic, wasn’t it?

Maybe it was the drinking. Or the smoking. Or just… lack of care. Maybe he’d gotten old. Careless. God, maybe even weak. His men had been doing a lot for him lately now that he thought about it.

He couldn’t remember the last time he actually captured a debtor himself.

The realization hit Mafioso like a freight train.

Goodness, he had let himself get carried away. He had let himself grow old, and now he spent his days lounging, drinking, and filing paperwork. He didn’t even do his job anymore. The job he had trained so hard to be good at. It was just… gone. It was his men’s job now. Not his. And maybe it hadn’t been his in while.

Mafioso stepped back against the bathroom wall, sliding to the floor. He pressed his face back into his palms, letting out a heavy, shuddering sigh.

“When did I get so fuckin’ fat?” The man whispered to himself, tears building in his eyes. Tears he had refused to shed for years. He moved a hand to grip his hair, tugging at it almost unconsciously. “Yer out of yer depth, Don…” a tear rolled down his cheek, and he let out a shuddering breath, his chest heaving.

It was just too much.