breezeblocks, c

it’s a weird duality, that primo is both father and employer. there are two families he belongs to in a sense, the mafia and the bet-shul, but in practice they’re not so directly opposed as one and the same. it isn’t complicated. he’s a son and a subordinate, only sometimes he doesn’t know which to be, tries to toe the line and ends up falling through the in-between.

the bet-shul manor’s second floor hallway is hushed, populated by the occasional stony-faced and silent mafioso on guard, when ezra and a taller, slightly hunched man march through it. ezra leads—his own shoulders are pulled back in a show of confident nonchalance; his footfalls ring crisp and purposeful to the other man’s meek shuffle. their procession ends in front of the heavy oaken doors at the end of the hall, blocked by two of the suited guards.

during business hours, even he’s obligated to ask for permission to see the boss. business hours could extend indefinitely though—and he hasn’t seen so much as a glimpse of primo in over a week. “i’d like to report to the boss the unauthorized actions of this guy,” ezra barely glances at the man, "here.” he almost frowns, keeps his expression impassive instead.

one guard slips in to relay the request. he blows out his breath and studies the wood paneling while waiting. he knows it's a flimsy excuse, but goddess, let him in already.