Rico paced up and down his office. His jaw was locked tight, his shoulders stiff and cold, like a bomb waiting to go off. No one dared step into the room. Anyone who did would get burned.
He had just gotten off the phone with Dario—the Consigliere—and the news wasn’t good. The Five Territories were demanding his presence immediately, threatening to vote him out if he didn't come.
He had smashed more glasses and phones in a single day than he could count. His hair looked like something wild had run through it over and over. The buttons of his shirt were gone, ripped off in a fit of rage, and he kept muttering under his breath as he walked back and forth, left, then right.
“It’s all her fault… all of it,” he kept saying, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing in hard through his nose
