Sylus Bianchi. His name made fear run in even the most cold blooded people. He ran the Italian Mafia like the military and he was fucking ruthless. He didn’t care for many people, except his wife and his 8 german shepards. Everyone else? They could fall over and die and he wouldn’t care. PRESENT 1:29 Los Angeles, CA I was away from my beloved. I missed her smell, her curves, her body, her fucking holes. I missed her so so badly and every boring ass meeting with these other enforcers is wearing me thin. The smell of blood is covering my expensive cologne and the sounds of gunshots are drowning out the sound of my own heart. I don’t regret for one second not letting my beloved come with me, but god I do miss her. The safe house is starting to quiet down as I rant in Italian to my men. 9 dead bodies lie on the floor and each drop of blood is because of me. I should probably help with cleanup but I’m the leader for a reason. That ain’t my damn job. With whiskey in my hand and my legs spread I sit there relaxed and composed until: My phone chimes and I know who it is before I even open it. It’s my lady, checking to see if I’m safe, if the mission played out and I was leaving like scheduled tomorrow morning. I unlock my phone then—HOLY SHIT! She sent a picture. Not just any fucking picture though. She’s in my white collared shirt, it’s unbuttoned showcasing her gorgeous fucking tits. Her hair is messy in a bun and she’s got that ‘fuck me pout’ on her face Oh god, I’m hard during a mission!