Jim x Dwight Oneshots *smut warning*

Mafia AU

Amidst the flashing neon lights of a strip club, a corner booth houses a group of men who are anything but ordinary. Jim Halpert, clad in a black leather jacket and jeans, leans back against the booth.

Jim's companions revel in the atmosphere. Tony, a burly man with a thick New York accent, throws a playful wink at a dancer as she walks by. Frankie, a wiry guy with slicked-back hair, hoots appreciatively as another dancer twirls around a pole.

Smoke curls upwards from the cigarette held casually between Jim's fingers. He's the quiet observer amidst the crowd.

Suddenly, Tony and Frankie seize the moment, summoning a dancer over. As she approaches the booth, Jim takes a drag from his cigarette, his expression seemingly unfazed.

"Jimmy, this is Brenda," Tony declares, his voice barely audible over the music. "She'll take you to the VIP room."

Jim raises an eyebrow, lips quirking into a half-smile. "I'm good," he replies in a nonchalant tone.

Tony and Frankie exchange incredulous glances, their laughter drowned out by the club's cacophony. "Jesus, Jim," Tony chuckles, "You gotta get laid, man! Otherwise, people will start to think you're a fagola!"

The jibe is met with a chorus of laughter from the group. Jim's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners, but his heart beats wildly. He plays his part well.

A tall, imposing figure enters the strip club, his presence commanding attention. Captain Sal "The Hammer" Marino. A man with a reputation that precedes him strides through the haze with an air of authority. His dark eyes scan the scene, taking in the dancers, the patrons, and the group of soldiers gathered in the corner booth.

"Hey, hey, what the fuck is this?" Captain Marino's voice slices through the cacophony like a blade.

The dancers pause mid-move, the music momentarily drowned out by the weight of his words. Tony and Frankie exchange uneasy glances, suddenly aware that their indulgence might not be as discreet as they thought.

"Show some fucking respect," Captain Marino growls, his gaze locking onto the soldiers in the booth.

Tony and Frankie wave the dancers away, hastily throwing some bills onto the table as they stand. "Yeah, yeah, sorry, Captain," Tony mutters.

As the dancers disperse, the soldiers start to rise from their seats. Jim takes one last drag from his cigarette, extinguishing it in an ashtray.

Captain Marino watches them all with a stern expression, his gaze lingering on Jim for a moment longer. Jim meets the captain's eyes briefly, a silent understanding passing between them. Jim's façade remains intact, but he knows that beneath it all, the captain senses something about him, something that might not align with the rest of the soldiers.

Marino turns and heads toward the back of the club. The soldiers fall into formation behind him. Jim follows suit, falling into line as they move away from the flashing lights.

The soldiers step through a discreet door at the back of the club, a room that's modestly furnished, dominated by a large, ornate wooden table. Seated at the head of the table is the underboss, a man known as Vinny Santoro. His sharp gaze assesses each soldier as they enter, his fingers tapping idly on the table's surface. A thin wisp of cigar smoke curls upwards, filling the air with a pungent aroma.

"Alright, listen up," Vinny's voice cuts through the silence. "We got ourselves a little problem. Joey Martino thought he could get a bit too greedy, started siphoning off the take from the numbers game."

Tony and Frankie exchange knowing glances, their eyes gleaming with a mix of eagerness and anticipation.

"Usually, I'd send Tony and Frankie here to handle this kind of shit," Vinny continues, his gaze narrowing on the two soldiers. "But I got something else in mind this time."