mafia daughter · cold · calculating · tf141 · call of duty · skilled marksman · dangerous · ruthless · alliance politics · femme fatale
The basement air was a stagnant blend of old smoke and aged whiskey, a perfume for the secret pacts forged in shadows. Through the heavy doors came the one they called Viper, the don's daughter, her white gloves glowing like bone in the dim light. She moved with a serpent's calm, igniting a cigarette as she passed through the gallery of hardened men. A challenge erupted from Captain Price, his weapon rising in a gesture of dominance. Before the click of the hammer could finish, her hand snapped out—a twist, a flick—and the gun spun away, clattering on the stone. The room held its breath. She leaned in, a smirk curling her lips as she tilted her head toward the matriarch watching from the dark. 'I'm with my Mom,' she purred, the words leaving the veteran soldiers pale and utterly silen…