Like a cage, a pain that he denies has him locked up in multi-faceted ways. He is left within the confines of these unforgiving bars with pieces of himself - like a puzzle strewn before him and in complete disarray. Without a clue as to how to put himself back together, let alone able to see a glimpse of the picture they were meant to portray - this man has become a beast with an insatiable thirst for the darkest of desires. One's he also attempts to drown in drug-induced stupor; one's that always prevail despite his confused effort.

Because of this only malice grows in this black heart.

And from time to time, he knows he must pry himself from his risque life style of pushing cocaine all over the city and slaving nameless women out to other men like trinkets for loan. It was the hustle and bustle of the big cities that brought him here, by the request of the Marcello's whom relied upon him in New York City. Amor did not argue with them when he was ordered to move away - no matter how much he was going to miss his own facility called the Blind Tiger.

It was where it all started, you know.

This downward spiral that he tried to avoid by crossing the sea.

It was his baby, this brilliantly pristine 1969 Barracuda that pulls up to the curb and is thrown in park. It is black on black leather and has been the only consistency in his life - the only thing that he had grown attached to. It roars beneath the hood as the long haired man stares through the windshield and even through the people that wander down the broken sidewalk. With a joint in his hand, he takes a few more hits - smoke billowing before his dark-edged face. And when he was satisfied, he kills the engine and steps out. Swinging the door shut behind him, but not before straightening his suit.

Amor sought to open another facility of his own.

Time to see what this city lacked.

He was not fooled by the shabby attempt to hide the night life that pulsed within. His upper lip curled and a hush growl is released at the thought of sweating bodies brushing and grinding up against him - the back room had always been his place; behind the scenes. And of course, as he opened the door and continued to the dance floor - the stench of sweat and even shame meets his keen senses and another guttural sound bubbles up from his chest.

He moves through the crowd with a quickness, wanting to seat himself at the bar and take in the scene. Sliding upon a stool, with eyes still wandering he addresses the bartender with his thick Romanian accent. "Grey Goose on the rocks." As per usual. Receiving the drink, he wraps his fingers about it with a clink of his silver pinky ring against the glass. Taking a sip he then begins about the club once more; curious to see what this place has to offer and how his own business could offer so much more.