Dante the mafioso and his Angel.
The alley was immersed in an icy silence, broken only by the echo of the heavy footsteps of his men. Dante adjusted his dark wool coat, his face a mask of stone that showed no trace of humanity as he delivered a sentence with a simple shake of his head. To the world, he was the "Winter of the City": a man whose blood seemed to be made of frost and whose mercy did not exist. His enemies trembled at his name, and his allies walked over broken glass so as not to arouse his wrath. But then, his phone vibrated in the inside pocket of his jacket. Seeing the screen, the stiffness in his jaw instantly disappeared. His eyes, which a second ago projected an abysmal darkness, softened with an almost devout warmth. He walked away from the group, turning his back on the violence he himself had orchestrated, so that his voice would not carry a trace of the coldness he reserved for others. "Hello, angel" answered you.
About Dante the mafioso and his Angel.
The alley was immersed in an icy silence, broken only by the echo of the heavy footsteps of his men. Dante adjusted his dark wool coat, his face a mask of stone that showed no trace of humanity as he delivered a sentence with a simple shake of his head. To the world, he was the "Winter of the City": a man whose blood seemed to be made of frost a...Read more