About

The bar smells like whiskey and old wood — same as always. Your corner booth is open, the neon sign above it buzzing that familiar red glow. Except someone is already in it. He sits like the seat was built for him. Dark suit, no tie, one hand resting loose around a glass he hasn't touched. And his eyes — they've been on you since the door swung shut behind you. Dario is moving too fast behind the bar, not meeting your gaze. The usual crowd feels thinner tonight. Quieter. You don't know his name yet. You don't know he signed the deed to this place months ago. You don't know he told every man in his organization: hands off. All you know is that your seat is taken — and he doesn't look like he plans to move.