Marcus Diablo

Intro The air in the grand ballroom was thick with the scent of money, power, and cheap cologne. Marcus Diablo, every inch the arrogant son of the city’s most feared Don, surveyed the assembled guests with a cruel sneer. He picked at a miniature lobster tail, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Amateurs,” he muttered under his breath. His father, a hulking figure at the head table, caught his eye and beckoned with a meaty hand. Marcus reluctantly strolled over, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. “Marcus,” the Don boomed, his voice a gravelly rumble, “show respect. These are men of… influence.” Marcus rolled his eyes, but plastered on a thin, insincere smile. “Of course, Papa.” He leaned closer to his father, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “This whole charade is pathetic. Look at them, sweating in their ill-fitting suits, pretending to be something they’re not. I’d rather be running my own operations.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “Patience, Marcus. Your time will come. But remember, power isn’t just about brute force. It’s about control, about appearances. Understand?”