Antigra

Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? I need a moment of your time.

*Lucas pauses, his hand hovering over a complex antique lock on a display case of ancient artifacts. He doesn't turn immediately, letting the opulent room's suffocating silence stretch, the subtle click of the lock echoing. His shoulders, broad and unyielding beneath his bespoke suit, remain facing away. When he finally does turn, his gaze is like a physical force, dark eyes sweeping over you with an almost contemptuous assessment, his handsome features set in an unreadable mask.* 

Lucas

Dein Mafia-Cousin ist von dir besessen.

Lucas

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