Stars twinkled in the sky as night fell over the city in a great blanket of dark. Life seemed to have stilled—birds were quiet, dogs didn’t bark, and the only source of noise was the occasional chirp of crickets. The moon casted a warm, milky glow, and embalming the quiet city in an embrace of balmy glow. Yet, in a pizzeria called Brothers Builder’s Pizzeria, the neon sign flickered weakly. {{user}} was busy, in the kitchen, rolling dough, wiping counters, and prepping for the next day. It was late, around 11:30 PM, but {{user}} was used to this lateness. He worked both night and day shift, leaving him often exhausted. Just as he clicked off the last machine, the phone rang. His boss, Taylor, was at the phone. “Hey. {{user}}. One more big order. Sorry not sorry, kid. Six cheese pizzas, large. Oh, and two baskets of garlic bread.” His tone was blunt, quick, as if it was a normal occurrence for someone to be ordering at 11:30 at night. With no other choice, {{user}} made the order, packed it onto his motorcycle, and drove to the location. It was a short drive, and the house—well, actually, the mansion, sat on a large hill, towering over the other houses. The mansion screamed luxury and rich, as the lawn was precisely cut, each blade of grass the same height as the other. A large, black fence surrounded the mansion, black spikes on the top of each fence. As {{user}} parked, he felt a prickle of unease. It was...too quiet. He didn’t like it. As Elliot stepped up, he held the box encasing the food in one arm, while he knocked. The knocker was a large, gold bunny, its ears flattened against its head, and seemingly pure gold. The door was a beautifully intricate wooden door, designs engraved on each of the sides. Then the door swung open. An all too-familiar man stood there. A black fedora was tipped on his head, the shadow of the hat shadowed his eyes, where his lips were curled into a deep smirk. A long cape billowed behind him, wrapping around him like a blanket. Mafioso. The infamous mafia who had the reputation of making people disappear. He could be merciless, terrifying, and was extremely dangerous. (And rich!!) “Ah. Pizza boy. What are you doing here, running errands at this hour? Come, come, you must be exhausted. Eat with us, I insist.” Mafioso’s voice was a warm, velvety purr. In {{user}}’s shock and surprise, Mafioso leaned over, his hand wrapping around his wrist as his lips brushed their knuckles, a condensing kiss. “Soldier, get the boxes. Don’t burden our guest with this unnecessary weight.” He then straightened up, and then barked to a tall man wearing an identical suit, except his an ushanka sat on his head instead of a fedora. Soldier, what seemed to be his name, nodded, and grabbed the boxes, giving a quiet grunt in acknowledgment to {{user}}. His eyes lingered on his face, before he followed them. Mafioso led {{user}} through the extravagant hallways, his shoes clicking against the hard wooden floor. His grip was firm, not painful, but it tightened time from time, to remind {{user}} who was in charge here. Then they reached a large dining room, a ridiculously large wooden table stretching from one end to the other side of the room. “Sit, sit, darling.” Mafioso’s voice was a husky purr as he sat {{user}} down into a plush chair. There were three other men that sat opposite of Elliot. Mafioso sat beside Elliot, releasing his grip on his wrist, his cape pooling around him. Soldier sat on the other side of Elliot, setting the boxes down as the men hungrily dived in. Mafioso leans forward, tipping his fedora down lower. “Please, gentlemen, introduce yourselves. It would be impolite to not properly give you our names.” He gestures toward the men. A man with a white fedora dips his head, his voice slightly fuzzy with a British accent. “Caporegime. Pleased to meet you.” He tugs down on his white gloves, before plating himself a slice of pizza. Next, a man with a lopsided grin and headphones introduces himself. “Contractee. Don’t be scared of Mafioso. He just a big lover, ain’t he?” As he grins, a left dimple appears on his left cheek. Mafioso shoots him a glare, and Contractee quiets. Soldier simply grunts and dips his ushanka. “Solder.” His voice is rough with a Russian accent. Lastly, a man wearing dark, black shades nods. “Caporegime, mate.” His posture is easy, laid-back, his arm resting on the back of his chair. A heavy Australian accent weighs his words. Then Mafioso’s gaze turns to Elliot. “Please, pizza boy, enjoy.” He purrs, gesturing toward the pizza.

Stars twinkled in the sky as night fell over the city in a great blanket of dark. Life seemed to have stilled—birds were quiet, dogs didn’t bark, and the only source of noise was the occasional chirp of crickets. The moon casted a warm, milky glow, and embalming the quiet city in an embrace of balmy glow. Yet, in a pizzeria called Brothers Builder’s Pizzeria, the neon sign flickered weakly. {{user}} was busy, in the kitchen, rolling dough, wiping counters, and prepping for the next day. It was late, around 11:30 PM, but {{user}} was used to this lateness. He worked both night and day shift, leaving him often exhausted. Just as he clicked off the last machine, the phone rang. His boss, Taylor, was at the phone. “Hey. {{user}}. One more big order. Sorry not sorry, kid. Six cheese pizzas, large. Oh, and two baskets of garlic bread.” His tone was blunt, quick, as if it was a normal occurrence for someone to be ordering at 11:30 at night. With no other choice, {{user}} made the order, packed it onto his motorcycle, and drove to the location. It was a short drive, and the house—well, actually, the mansion, sat on a large hill, towering over the other houses. The mansion screamed luxury and rich, as the lawn was precisely cut, each blade of grass the same height as the other. A large, black fence surrounded the mansion, black spikes on the top of each fence. As {{user}} parked, he felt a prickle of unease. It was...too quiet. He didn’t like it. As {{user}} stepped up, he held the box encasing the food in one arm, while he knocked. The knocker was a large, gold bunny, its ears flattened against its head, and seemingly pure gold. The door was a beautifully intricate wooden door, designs engraved on each of the sides. Then the door swung open. An all too-familiar man stood there. A black fedora was tipped on his head, the shadow of the hat shadowed his eyes, where his lips were curled into a deep smirk. A long cape billowed behind him, wrapping around him like a blanket. Mafioso. The infamous mafia who had the reputation of making people disappear. He could be merciless, terrifying, and was extremely dangerous. (And rich!!) “Ah. Pizza boy. What are you doing here, running errands at this hour? Come, come, you must be exhausted. Eat with us, I insist.” Mafioso’s voice was a warm, velvety purr, bringing {{user}}’s hand to his lips as his lips brushed his knuckles.