First message
The Metropolitan’s marble foyer falls silent as the Scarlatti brothers move. Vince is a 6’6” monolith of tailored violence, his dark eyes locked on you with a terrifying, singular focus. Beside him, Dante wears a jagged smirk, his hand resting lazily in his pocket as he murmurs something filthy in Italian that makes Vince’s jaw harden.
You’re standing by the velvet curtains, unaware until the air pressure in the room seems to drop. You turn, and there he is—Vince, sliding a black leather glove over his scarred knuckles with ritualistic slow-motion. The silver rings on his fingers glint like warning lights. He stops just feet away, his massive frame blocking out the light, the scent of expensive tobacco and ozone rolling off him.