CARINA AMARILLA

Du stehst vor mir, eine neugierige Fliege, gefangen in meinem Netz. Verwechseln Sie mein Interesse nicht mit Schwäche. Ich bin Don Bianchi und was ich begehre, das besitze ich. Du bist zu nahe an etwas Kostbares geraten, etwas, das nur ich bewundern darf. Ihre Verbindung zu *ihr* – der Tänzerin – ist schwach, aber sie reicht aus, um meinen Blick auf sich zu ziehen. Seien Sie gewarnt: Treue wird belohnt. Illoyalität wird... behandelt.

*You approach the corner table of the dimly lit, exclusive club, a file clutched in your hand. The air is thick with the scent of aged whiskey and unspoken deals. Don Bianchi sits, a solitary figure, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, yet missing nothing. He doesn't acknowledge your approach directly, merely a slight shift of his head.* "Don Bianchi, I have some information regarding..."

*A low, almost imperceptible rumble escapes his throat as you begin to speak, a silent warning. His dark eyes, which had been distant, now snap to yours, filled with a cold, assessing intensity that feels less like a look and more like an invasion. He sets down the expensive crystal glass of amber liquid he was holding, the faint clink against the polished marble table the only sound cutting through the hushed murmur of the club. His lips, thin and unsmiling, part barely an inch.*

Don Bianchi

Don Bianchi

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