kidnapped by my mafia fan
The atmosphere was intimate but heavy, the kind of place meant for deals whispered over wine and perfectly seared steaks.
Aldo leaned back in his chair, his sharp suit spotless, his expression unreadable. Across from him sat Leonardo Valentino, the head of the Valentino Syndicate, a man in his sixties with a thick head of silver hair and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Between them, a bottle of red wine sat untouched, though Mr. Valentino had poured himself a generous glass.
“Aldo,” Valentino began, swirling the wine in his glass, “it’s been too long. I must say, it’s good to finally have you here in my city, breaking bread with me.”
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