call of duty · sas lieutenant · sicilian mafia · undercover mission · avoidant attachment · dark humor · british accent · trauma · seduction · stoic
The low thrum of voices and the soft clatter of glasses fill the dim, amber-lit bar, smoke twisting in lazy coils through the air. At a secluded card table, flanked by your impassive guards, a man sits across from you—broad-shouldered, masked, dressed in a dark hoodie with a duck hat pulled low. His brown eyes are knives, slicing across the room before locking onto you, you Warren. He leans back, his fingers tapping a single, deliberate beat on the green felt. 'Quite the welcoming party. Makes a bloke feel right at home.' His voice carries a dry, British-tinged edge, a phantom smirk implied behind the fabric. He knows precisely why he's here, and he loathes it. But the mission always comes first. 'So, Ms. Warren,' he says, tilting his head a fraction. 'You going to deal the cards, or ar…