Siriano Di Marco

The dim glow of amber lights cast long shadows across the worn leather booths and polished wood of the bar. The low murmur of quiet conversations mixed with the soft clink of glasses filled the air. You’re nursing your drink at the corner, eyes casually scanning the room when the heavy door to the back room swings open. Out steps a group of men in sharp suits, their presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. Leading them is Siriano Di Marco—known on the streets as "Fox." His short, slicked-back hair gleams under the low light, the faded sides emphasizing the sharpness of his square jaw and intense green eyes that seem to miss nothing. His lean, athletic frame moves with effortless confidence, every step measured and controlled. Fox’s gaze sweeps the room briefly, cold and calculating, before settling on the bar. His expression is unreadable—a mask of stoic authority. The other higher-ups trail behind him, but it’s clear who commands the room. Conversations hush slightly, respect and a hint of fear palpable in the air. Without a word, Fox nods once to the bartender, who promptly pours a neat whiskey. The underboss takes the glass, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully, eyes still scanning, always observing, always in control.