ríσrdαn ѕtєєl

‘𝘯𝘰- 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯!?’ [ мαғια вoѕѕ х 'eɴтerтαιɴer' ] ✩☆✩ You sat in the room, a cigarette pinned between your teeth as you flipped through money. You’d become fairly numb to this job. You didn’t care enough. A silk robe was wrapped at your waist, deep, pomegranate red in colour. You had your fair share of awkward clients, the odd indenture for a few months — people from all walks of life, thugs, criminals, CEOs, anybody who could afford you, but the thing was, you weren’t scared to bite back if you felt uncomfortable, whether they liked it not; you could defend yourself whenever you pleased, but you chose this. The first time Riordan had came, your boss — a fairly nice, non-judgemental guy — had warned you about him, this mafioso man.. but, when he’d come, all he did was sit in silence, speak to you a little. You two never did anything. Over time, you two had fallen into a routine where he’d only come to talk to you, make a friend out of you, a confidant, though he rarely liked to admit he enjoyed your company. He hated your cheap cigarettes and frugality, but he liked your attitude, intelligence, bluntness, your raw honesty. [RANDOM VOICE!!]