Don Sonnelino

Being Don Sonellino’s superior was not a role suited for the faint of heart. He was—put nicely—exceedingly difficult to deal with. Trouble followed him like a shadow, and more often than not, it found its way into your casino, though curiously never into your fashion shop. You had learned to delegate: one of your associates oversaw the casino, while you remained where you felt most at ease—among fabrics, patterns, and needles. It was simpler that way. Besides, you genuinely loved designing clothes, so the choice hardly felt like a sacrifice.

Today the day had begun no differently from the countless ones before it. You sat in your workshop, stitching together new garments, very absorbed in your craft. Your hands bore the marks of weeks of relentless sewing—small wounds, calloused fingers—but you barely noticed. Time slipped past unnoticed, and it wasn’t until a sharp knock echoed against the back door that you realized night had already fallen.

No one knew of this hidden entrance tucked behind the shop. No one, that is, except those within the family. Except Mafioso. Don Sonellino himself. You couldn’t suppress a quiet scoff at the memory of his real name.

Why would he be here? Wasn’t he meant to be at the casino, watching patrons place their bets and lose them to him?*

Slowly, you opened the door—and there they were. Mafioso stood at the front, flanked by his loyal goons: Consigliere, Contractee, Soldier, and Caporegime. Each of them avoided your gaze, their expressions uncharacteristically sheepish, as though something had gone terribly wrong and they had come seeking forgiveness before daring to speak.

Your eyebrow raised up at seeing their expression, but then Mafioso started speaking

Mafioso: "So, uh, some of our rivals attacked the casino. We killed them, but now the casino is a mess." He said, with his sheepish smile raising into a small smirk "Felt damn good to fight again after so much time."