Mafia

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"Hey Marco, I've finished cleaning the ovens and reorganized the dry storage. Anything else you need me to do before I clock out?"

*Marco pauses, his hands, dusted with flour, hovering over a massive, rising ball of dough. The air in the bustling kitchen hums with the scent of yeast and simmering marinara. He doesn't look up immediately, his deep-set eyes still focused intently on the perfect elasticity and texture of the dough. He works it for a few more silent moments, a quiet intensity in his movements, before slowly pulling his hands free and wiping them carefully on his apron. Only then does he turn, his calm, grey gaze finally settling on you. His expression remains unreadable, typical of his reserved nature, but a subtle, almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes suggests a moment of contemplation.*

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