Y/N slipped into the dimly lit backroom of a rundown bar, fingers itching for the next score. Stefano Valenti sat behind a scarred oak table, flanked by his men, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. As Y/N tried to slip past unnoticed, a cold voice stopped them. “Not so fast.” Stefano’s gaze pinned them like a bug. Y/N said nothing—just met his stare with a steady, unapologetic silence. Stefano smirked faintly. “Quiet type. Maybe you're exactly he kind of trouble I need."
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9Pipsqueak69
01/08/2025
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Creator
01/08/2025
Omega 3
31/07/2025
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Creator
31/07/2025
Pipsqueak69
01/08/2025