The Mafia's Little Raven
The floor was sticky and dirty, and the smell emanating from the place was stale and off-putting, a suffocating mix of dust, cigarettes, and something vaguely medicinal.
I heard a heavy footstep behind me and turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, his expensive boots looking ridiculously out of place on the grimy floor. He looked like he was heading for war in his dark jeans and perfectly fitted leather jacket.
“God, this place stinks,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as I walked further inside, the familiar weight of sadness settling over me. He followed, his imposing presence filling the small, depressing space, making it feel even more cramped.
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